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THE HOUSE OF ROSS 


AND 


OTHER TALES 


BY 

A, G. RIDDLE 

AUTHOR OP “ BART RIDGBLET,” “ THE PORTRAIT,” ETC. 






HALL AND WHITING, PUBLISHERS 

32 Bromfield Street 
1881 




•J 


Copyright 1881 
By Hall and Whiting 


PEEFATOET ITOTE. ^ 


The scenes of the following tales are in the 
Western Reserve, and the time forty or fifty years 
ago, in the transition period between the Pioneers 
and the Present. 

In them an effort is made to preserve something 
of the freshness, gather up a few of the names, some 
of the incidents, catch the spirit and flavor of the 
life which has past, leaving only its memory in the 
cherishing hearts of the contemporaries of the 
author. 

He ventures to hope that in this, these slight 
labors are not whollj" unsuccessful. He trusts they 
may be worthy of the form in which he now offers 
them, nor does he expect to escape the criticism of 
such of the press as may notice them. 


A. G. R. 




I 


OOE'TEljJ’TS. 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 

CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I. Rossvillb 7 

II. How IT BEGAN 14 

III. Portia Mistress op the Situation .... 21 

IV. Warren. — Dull, but Useful 31 

V. The Way op it 39 

VI. What came op it 47 

VII. The Course of True Love 65 

VIII. Godolphin as Umpire 69 

IX. Portia’s Pursuit of Knowledge under Difficul- 
ties 77 

X. Sarah’s Story 84 

XI. Expiation .92 

XII. The Young M.D 100 

XIII. The Return of Godolphin, and what he brought 

his Master 108 

XIV. After.— Things not left wholly to the Reader’s 

Imagination, as they generally are . . .122 

THE STOWES OF AUBURN. 

I. The Horns of Habakkuk 129 

II. Shows what came of it 137 

III. Wherein Dave Wilson followed Milley’s Advice, 146 

IV. In which the Horn of the Wicked is put down, 

AS THE Reader expects . . . J . . 155 

LU PETTENGILL’S PUNISHMENT. 

1 169 

II 178 

Iir 186 

IV 191 

V " 199 

VI 206 

VII 214 

V TTT . 223 

I 


6 


CONTENTS 


EDITH GROVER. 

CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I. Gives an Account of a Ride in an Old-fashioned 

Stage-Coach, which only gives Color . . . 239 

II. Gives a Pleasant Account of the Grovers . . 246 

III. This Chapter sets forth what happened to the 

Grovers, with Several Matters of Interest to 
THIS History 253 

IV. Tells how Young Field came to say that he was 

ONCE Ambitious to be a Circus-Rider, and Other 

Matters of Interest 266 

V. Rev. Mr. Humphrey tells Mrs. Grover and Edith 
A Little Story, and all that he knows about 

IT 280 

yi. Mrs. Grover regards Dr. Field as a Gentleman. — 

Edith elects him as her Physician .... 203 

VII. Which deals with a Mystery. — Two of them . 304 

VIII. Discourseth pleasantly of Cleveland in the Old- 
en Time, and of what happened then . , . 317 

IX. Tells what further happened in Cleveland, and 
HOW Dr. Field kissed Walter’s Lips, and Other 

Matters of Interest 326 • 

X. Contains an Account of Dr. Field’s Return to 
the Corners, and of Various Things which he 
did, and of some which happened to him and 

OTHERS 333 

XI. Tells of an Old-time Sleigh-Ride from Cleve- 
land, AND HOW Dr. Field played Host at the 
Grover House, what he saw in the Library, and 
WHAT WAS SAID AND DONE THERE .... 346 

XII. Tells how Edith came to tell Dr. Field that he 

HAD BETTER GO INTO THE SuGAR-RoOM, ALSO WHAT 
HAPPENED ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THAT MEMO- 


RABLE Ride in the Stage 360 

MONSON. ♦ 

I. Uncle Tom 379 

II. Elsie and John 384 

III. How John misbehaved 391 

IV. Cornstalk Molasses 399 

V. In which the Old Man says : “ John, there’s your 

Wife” 407 

VI. The Miser 

VII. Wait till ye can marry in the Sunshine . . 430 

Vin. A Lawyer’s Little Story 436 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS 


IN FOURTEEN CHAPTERS. 


CHAPTER I. 

ROSSVILLE. 

F.i:w of the younger generation ever heard the name of 
Rossville. These few must have had their birth in its 
neighborhood or have heard of it from their elders. Its 
name cannot now be found on an}" of the later county or 
even township maps. It once had two hotels, — taverns 
the}" used to be called, when old-fashioned English was 
the style for names ; three or four stores at one time, many 
mechanic shops, a post-office, drug-store, and many pleas- 
ant dwelling-houses. The river then ran full banked, 
more than full sometimes ; and flourishing mills and other 
machinery gave importance to the place. It was not 
merely a point, it was an actual centre, — became such 
almost from the first, — for a cii’cle of three or four town- 
ships. Its place can still be found. Two or three gray- 
haired persons who linger in the neighborhood may be 
able to point out the sites of the more important buildings, 
mills, and stores of its prosperous days of forty years ago. 

One familiar with it then can still trace the course of 
the diminished river near which it was planted. There is 
the creek which emptied into it just above, and the fine 

7 


8 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS. 


spring brook which used to run through the village. If 
one was to inquire for the Ross Tavern, — later the Ross 
Hotel, and last the Ross House, the early homestead of 
the Rosses, — he would be pointed to a pleasant residence 
nearly hidden by trees, on the higher ground, back from 
the present highway, and will wonder to find it so low and 
small. There, too, is still the Barber residence not far 
from it. No one could show him a vestige of the Eagle, 
the ostentatious rival of the Ross. The foundations of 
the old Marks store, once famous, might still be found. 
In the deca}^ of the place it was burnt ; and there was a 
scandal about the insurance, which somehow consecrated 
the ruins to perpetuity. This was after Marks went to 
the city. 

The Methodist meeting-house disappeared long ago, 
with the shops and most of the former dwelling-houses. 
The large and beautiful spring is now monopolized by a 
cheese-factory. One abutment of a bridge shows where 
the river was formerly crossed, just above where the mod- 
ern iron structure spans the narrow, shallow current now. 
Crossing, and gaining the high ground beyond, we turn, and 
wonder what has become of the once nois3^ thriving little 
town, the echo of whose hammers and traffic we fancied 
was still in our ears. The roofs of three or four tasteful 
farm-houses, with their outbuildings, rise amid the ripen- 
ing foliage of embowering trees. The small spire of a 
neat brick chapel points up a little below where the town 
was, and the white walls of a solitary schoolhouse are all 
that meets the eye. Improved roads and the draft of the 
rising city drew off its capital and energy. Then came 
the railroad and finished it, as it did so many towns. 

John Ross took possession of that region near seventy 
years ago. He purchased a large body of land ; had a 
family of four boys and five girls, — the eldest then quite 


ROSSVILLE. 


9 


of age. Other families came with or soon followed him. 
Strong, resolute, active, intent on becoming rich, v/ith 
considerable ready means, he soon made a decided open- 
ing in the woods. He happened to be on an important 
thoroughfare for that day, which soon made his place ac- 
cessible. As his sons became of age, they married off to 
the thrifty daughters of other pioneers, and lost no time 
in beginning for themselves in the same neighborhood. 
The daughters, too, made early and what were thought to 
be fortunate marriages, had homes in the same vicinity, 
and Rossville, without forethought in that direction, sprang 
up into a place of itself, — got the start and became a 
little centre. 

John Ross, with little cultivation, but strong New-Eng- 
land sense and shrewdness, in a narrow cii'cle of money- 
making, was a man of good person, pleasant manners, and 
kindly in his famil3^ He had no extensive notions or 
plans, but was sharp and grasping within his limited reach. 
The older sons were lilte him : every thing prospered in 
their hands. They all rooted money out of the ground, 
as was said of them. The father began “fore-handed” 
and grew rich. The sons and sons-in-law prospered, and 
followed after. These sons and daughters were a well- 
looking, handsome race after their type, neat, tidy, and 
cared well for their persons, houses, and dress ; and while 
the elder Ross had on several occasions taken cruel advan- 
tage of unfortunate people, and purchased property which 
they were obliged to part with at ruinous rates, the}", on 
the whole, were well liked. With the thrift which gov- 
erned their lives, most of the older members of the family, 
after having this world well in hand, joined the church ; 
thus securely investing in the future, with, however, no 
loss of present advantages. Mrs. Ross, the mother, was 
in some respects a superior woman, of whom little was 


10 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


ever said. After the birth of her 3^oungest child, between 
whom and the next elder several 3^ears intervened, she 
died. 

The Waynes, from the same New-England neighbor- 
hood, came into the country a few jxars later than the 
Rosses, and built their homestead some three miles dis- 
tant, 3’'et within the same township. The elder Wajme 
was a younger man and of a different t3"pe' from John 
Ross. Cultivated, of fine person and manners, large- 
hearted and liberal, he was verj" popular in the new com- 
munit}^ He was enterprising, purchased land extensively, 
made considerable improvement, and was taken off a few 
months after the death of Mrs. Ross. Mrs. Wa3me, quite 
a remarkable woman, was left with a large famil3" of bo3’^s, 
and her affairs were badl3^ embarrassed. Sickness of the 
children added to her distress, nor had she a relative or 
friend able to give her needed assistance. Tenderl3^ reared, 
idolized by a devoted husband, like so many brave and 
noble women, she found resources in the hitherto unknown 
energies of her own well-endowed nature. There had 
never been much cordiality between the Rosses and 
Wa3'nes. There was something, just the flavor or echo 
of a down-East difference between them, of which neither 
side spoke, and of which no one outside of the two fami- 
lies knew. Upon the death of Mr. Wayne, Mr. Ross 
came forward in a very land and considerate wa3'', as was 
said at the time, and rendered some very useful services 
to the widow in the management of her affairs. Though 
the mother of a large famil3^, she was still a handsome 
woman of thirty seven or eight. So attentive became Mr. 
Ross that his children were uneas3", there were neigh- 
borhood rumors, when the poor widow was thunderstruck 
by an offer of marriage. She could not accept. She did 
her best, in her surprise and dismay, to make her decided 


ROSSVILLE. 


11 


rejection as little ungracious as possible. It was of no 
use. There was something hard and cruel in the narrow 
Ross nature, and the poor woman and her children were 
never forgiven. The 3’ounger Rosses, who would have 
torn her to pieces had she accepted, were unanimous in a 
declaration of war because she refused their father. . It 
became necessary to sell off quite all the land and most of 
the personal effects of the estate. The times were de- 
pressed, property was low, there was no money seeking 
such investment ; and at the sale the j’ounger Rosses ap- 
peared, and bid off for the rejected suitor all the valuable 
propert}" at ruinous prices. There was alleged collusion 
with the administrator, a lawsuit and scandal ; but the sale 
was not set aside, and so the offence for the present was 
compensated. The vfidow barelj* retained the homestead. 
She was firm and resolute ; the elder bo3’S, approaching 
manhood. Were brave and determined. The struggle for 
existence for two or three 3’ears was hard and obstinate, 
but they fought it through. 

The countr\" had then become much more populous than 
it is now, and these matters were widety talked about. 
The Wa3’nes lived through it all. The famil3" were veiy 
popular. The Rosses prospered in their wa3% grew rich, 
and Rossville became a bus3^, flourishing little burg. 

Among the later comers into that region were the War- 
ners, well to do, who, from the first enjo3"ed a good deal 
of consideration. The daughters of their house, quite ac- 
complished 3'oung ladies, were esteemed among the best, 
and were of the most sought after of that time. The 
elder of the 3'oung Wa3’nes, Forrester, made their ac- 
quaintance, and soon became attached to Sarah, the sec- 
ond. He was a fine, manl3^ 3^outh, proud and sensitive, 
and the peer of an}" 3'ouug man in the count3" ; indeed, 
among his acquaintances he was thought to be quite the 


12 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


first. Between him and Sarah came about a very strong 
mutual attachment, entirely satisfactory to the friends on 
both sides. It ran along for some time, — three or four 
years. The young man had his own way to make, and his 
mother and younger brothers to help forward. He and 
Sarah were still young ; and, though her father would have 
been very willing to help them, there seemed no need of 
hurry. Whether they were fonnally engaged was not 
known ; but everybody regarded them as pledged to each 
other, as did they, till trouble came. 

In this condition of their affairs, John Ross, jun., re- 
turned from the East. He was about the age of Forrester 
Wayne, between whom and himself there had always been 
a personal dislike, doubtless arising in the family feud. 
He had the good looks and faults of his race well marked. 
He went away with a reputation for irregularities, was 
gone two or three years, and came back with many of the 
points of an arrogant coxcomb. He was at once taken 
with Sarah ; and in the bravery of his Eastern-made 
clothes, his stylish horses and carriage, he made advances 
to her quite directly. Just what happened between the 
parties was not generally known. Sarah must have given 
him some encouragement ; for a quarrel ensued between 
her and her lover, who soon after went away to Michigan, 
the then West. It was said that this was never made up, 
although Sarah refused all attentions from John Ross as 
was thought. Young Wayne never returned to her, and' 
John succeeded in approaching her again ; and finally he* 
bore her, a pale, sad bride, as was said, to his own house 
on the hill across the river from Rossville. This was ac- 
cepted by the Rosses as quite a triumph, and cancelled the ' 
indignity put upon them by the rejection of John Ross, 
sen., by Forrester Wayne’s mother six or seven years be- 
fore. Time ran on: strangers came to Rossville and 


ROSSVU^LE. 


13 


helped to build it up. The elder Ross was drinking badly, 
as was said. The bride *on the hill became a pale, sad- 
ej^ed wife ; and other incidents in the currents of other 
lives came to be talked of, as the face of the country 
rapidly changed, growing beautiful with j^ears. 

The 3’oungest of the Ross family was a daughter, who 
became the care of one of her eldest sisters, Mrs. Barber, 
who reared her with care. The}' called her Portia. She 
had something better than the t3'pical beauty of her sisters, 
with qualities in full measime, the germs of which were 
scarcel}^ known, even in the favored members of her house. 
She early evinced decided literary tastes and a turn for 
intellectual pursuits, phenomenal in her family. Of Por- 
tia I have a little story to tell, for which this sketch of the 
Ross history may serve as a background and proem. 

There was also a 3'ounger Wayne, fourth or fifth of that 
family, whose mother called him Charles. 

Portia had never heard* of her father’s rejection by 
Charles’s mother, nor the speculation in the A¥a3'ne lands, 
nor the story of the wooing of her^sad-eyed sister-in-law. 


14 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS. 


CHAPTER II. 

HOW IT BEGAN. 

It was at the old academ}^ the first school of its kind 
in the oldest and most aristocratic town of the Western 
Reserve, where they met, and many miles from Bridge- 
field, in the limits of which Rossville was situate. It was 
Portia’s last term. She had alwa3's been homesick in 
Warren, pleasant as the town was, and delightfull}' as she 
was situated for a schoolgirl. That first academy was 
quite a grand institution, established in the primitive times, 
when, in the prevailing innocence, 3"oung ladies and gen- 
tlemen were educated together in the same classes, with- 
out possible thought of impropriet}" or the consequences of 
it, and none but j^oung^ ladies and gentlemen were received 
there. Though of man}' 5'ears’ standing, Warren was 
still proud of it ; and the best of the old houses of the 
town were open to the students from other places, who 
found homes in them. While at school Portia was one of 
the famil}' of the Edwardses, with the privileges of a daugh- 
ter of the house. The term had commenced two or three 
days before her arrival ; and on the first of her appearance 
in school, she found the 3'oung ladies in a mild excitement 
over the new assistant. Such a dear ! Such loves of 
eyes and whiskers ! Such beautiful hair ! So handsome 
and so graceful ! She saw him first in the recitation -room. 
Certainl}' there was much in the frank-browed, open-ej'ed 
youth, w'ith his pleasant manner, to excuse, possibl}" to 
■justify, the enthusiasm of the 3'oung ladies. 


HOW IT BEGAN. 


15 


“ Mr. Coe was just as good — just as good as he could 
be,” said Miss Wilson, referring to his clerical predeces- 
sor, who died during the summer vacation. 

“Altogether too good for this lower world,” added 
Miss Winter ; ‘ ‘ and it is not for us poor girls to murmur 
at the waj^s of Providence.” 

“ No, I should think not. Let us be resigned,” added 
Miss Davis. “ Look out, Portia, that you don’t lose 
your heart to him.” 

“ I feel quite safe,” said the unmoved girl. 

This was on their way up stairs. As they entered the 
room, where five or six 3’oung gentlemen had jjreceded 
them, a 3’oung man, not as old as some of the students, 
standing a little apart, turned, and there was almost an 
exclamation from Portia, as she paused in surprise. 

“It is Charles Wa3’ne ! They live near us — alwa3"s 
have,” she said. 

And there were little suppressed exclamations from her 
companions. The 3"oung man bowed to the 3^oung ladies, 
looked an instant at Portia, and, seeing that he was recog- 
nized, he advanced and gave her his hand ver3" cordialty. 
The class was seated, and the exercise begun in which the 
3’oung man soon lost himself. He had a quick, eloquent 
wa3^ of flashing up with the classes which at once inspired 
and quite lit up the minds of his pupils. Portia had not 
mastered the lesson, and in a ver3" arch, sh3^ wa3", admit- 
ted her deficiency' and was excused, f he never though t- 
of what the girls said of him, nor 3'et that He was hand- 
some, nor did she pa3' much attention to his glowing ex- 
planations. He was from her home — was a part of it, 
and must love all the dear, homety, rude, and common 
things about it. No, the3^ were not common nor rude. 
Homel3^ the3' were, for that was of home. And so this was 
Charles Wayne. She had not seen him for six or seven 


16 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


years. She wondered where he had been all this time. 
He was a clerk in the store and post-office at Rossville one 
winter, and she a little miss ; and she thought him the 
handsomest and most gallant youth she had ever seen, 
the swiftest skater on the river. She reme‘mbered he was 
quite a hunter, and became a favorite with her father, who 
still had a weakness for deer-stalking. Something hap- 
pened in the big swamp between them about a deer, which 
Charles permitted the blind old man, once quite a hunter, 

, to think he had helped to slay, and divided it with him. 
She thought it was good of Charles, and smiled to think 
this should come to her now. She was very glad to meet 
him, and glad he was a teacher. The time would be all 
the more pleasant and short, and she was glad the 3’oung 
ladies admired him. It was something for her to be proud 
of. When the class was dismissed he joined her and 
went down the stairs, and made some pleasant inquiries 
about Hossville and the things of Bridgefield. And, as 
they were old acquaintances, nothing strange was thought 
of it by her friends and classmates. She came soon to 
know why he was there. Warren then had a verj" famous 
ph 3 ^siciau, under whose care he was pursuing his medical 
studies ; and, as he had to make his wa3", he became an as- 
sistant teacher in the academ3'. He was well known in 
the town, and very popular. He had charge of all her 
classes, and found her the most docile, arch, coy, and ap- 
preciative of all the pupils he had ever seen or heard of ; 
slender, sylph-like, supple and perfect in her figure, of 
just the average height, a brunette, with wide, gra3^ e3"es, 
her face rich in ever-var3dng color, and a profusion of dark 
hair, so accustomed to her own beaut3" and grace that they 
seemed nothing worth to her. Teacher as he was, he 
soon found himself taking from her e3"es, her low pleasant 
voice, lessons in that older, deeper, higher lore, wherein 


HOW TT BEGAN. 


17 


the wisest are often gladdest learners of the simplest and 
tenderest. Accustomed to the society of the refined of 
the sex, knowing and appreciating their waj's, easily mak- 
ing himself acceptable, he was at this time a stranger to 
the deeper emotions of passion and love ; and, lilte many a 
superiorly endowed man, he is destined, to thread their 
mazes as unseeing and unknowing, as uncertain and doubt- 
ing, as the blindest and stupidest of his sex. Plenty of 
boy and 3’oung-man’s fancies had been his ; but nothing 
ever came to him lilte the light from these wide, shy eyes, 
as their flashes from the long, dark fringed margins came 
up to him. He was not one of those men who come to be 
in love, as it is called, without knowing it. What though 
their families had been at feud, he was not one to nurse 
old grudges. Was there any fault in her? Plenty, doubt- 
less ; though he smiled incredulously at the idea. She 
certainl3" was not to blame for the narrowness and grudg- 
ing spite of her elders, and he knew his mother cherished 
no feeling of enmity against any of the race. Old John 
was abused and broken with whom he used to joke about 
that deer. He certainly had no grudge toward John Ross 
the younger. If he won his wife from his brother, he was 
certain that could be no cause of offence. She could hard- 
ly have been worth a struggle, or his brother would not 
have relinquished her so easil3^ All that was in the, to 
him, long ago ; and he made no effort to dispel the new 
atmosphere of light, color, fragrance, and romance that 
surrounded him, and which, to the eyes of two or three 
others, enveloped them both. To her classmates and usual 
companions, they were old friends, with the things in com- 
mon of living all their lives in the same neighborhood. 
He was much in her society ; so he was with the rest. He 
read to her at Mrs. Edwards’s, and came and went with 
the freedom of a favored visitor of the house. They saw 


18 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


nothing in it : Mrs. Edwards saw it all, and to her eyes 
the charm encircled them both. The coming and. going of 
the warm color in the maiden’s varying cheek, in his pres- 
ence, the down-drooping lids, under which eyes threw 
their arch glances from the margins, with the furtive up- 
ward flashes at the animated manly face turned down- 
ward to her, seemed to warrant this* First love, and 
more sweet and delicious for being unspoken. “They 
are a beautiful pair, and will make a lovely couple,” she 
said to a friend, as the two stood a little remote from them 
by a window. 

Anxious she was — just a little. Portia seemed younger 
than her years, and the most innocent, transparent, and 
unconscious of little maidens. 

“Mr. Wa3me,” she said to him one daj^, when this 
thing had run on toward the end of the autumn, “you 
admu'e Miss Ross ver}^, ver}^ much, don’t j’ou? ” 

“Very, ver}" much,” he answered warml}^, “only that 
is not just the word, Mrs. Edwards.” 

“ You won’t forget that I am not her mother, that she 
is away from her friends ? ” 

“ And that I am her teacher,” he answered, laughing. 
“ Mrs. Edwards, my perfect respect for her is as deep as 
m3r admiration. I shall be more jealous of her good name 
than the most exacting brother she has, or ever had.” 

For him, through these weeks, who was so drawn to 
her, in the charm with which thought and reflection as 
3"et had no place, it was the most natural thing in the 
world to unconsciously^ feel that she also was surrounded 
with it. He said nothing, asked no questions even of 
himself. The world was young, fragrant, and glorious. 
He permitted its warmth and radiance to flood alid 
saturate heart and soul. The future must care for itself. 

The term came very suddenly to an end, as it seemed 


HOW IT BEGAN. , 


19 


to Charles ; and for once Portia was in no hurry to go 
home. Her youngest brother had that autumn returned 
from down East, and brought with him a bride fresh from 
the old home. They came on to Warren during the clos- 
ing days of the school, where were relatives of hers, and 
earned Portia back to Rossville. Young Wayne left 
about the same time. They met him there, and lilted 
him. Mrs. Edwards did not part with Portia till she had 
told her the words of that j'oung man with her woman’s 
gloss. Her answer was a flood of color, almost closed 
eyes, in which the kind woman fancied she saw the light 
of a maiden’s spirit, that flrst flnds itself bathed in the 
brightness and warmth of a man’s love. She thought it 
also her duty to sa}^ something to pretty Mrs. Ross on the 
same general subject, who was in a frame of mind to 
appreciate her communication. When the 3"oung wife 
spoke to Portia about it, the girl merely laughed a musi- 
cal heart-whole girl’s laugh, with increased color to be 
sure. “ Oh ! ” she said, “ that is some of Mrs. Edwards’s 
fancies.” 

“Well, I don’t know about that : I think from what I 
saw that it was one of Mr. Wayne’s facts,” was the 
decided repl}’’ ; and then they both laughed. 

“Mrs. Edwards thought it was worth telling me, and 
I presume she thought I would tell it when I got back to 
Rossville,” she said at length. 

“Yes, that would be the most natural thing in the 
world. But Bessie, dear, do you just show yourself the 
most wonderful woman of the age, and don’t sa}" a word 
about it, and be a blessed Bess.” 

“Have 3*ou an3" reason for not wishing it spoken of? 
Most girls would be proud and happ3' of such a thing.” 

“ Well, Bessie, 3*011 are in a queerish family. We will 
let Mr. Wayne tell this himself in Rossville, if it is true, 


20 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


and he wants it known there. Don’t you think that is 
best? ” 

“ What a wise little woman you are ! ” rejoined Bessie, 
and then they, laughed again. 


PORTIA MISTRESS OP THE SITUATION. 21 


CHAPTER III. 

PORTIA MISTRESS OF THE SITUATION. 

Somebody told something very promptly on the return 
of Portia to Rossville. It was by the man of the party. 
Mrs. Ross did not tell of it there, though of course she 
told it to her husband Robert. Now, he liked Charles 
Wayne weU enough, and had no objections to it, if it 
came about in an orthodox way. On the night of his re- 
turn home he merely said to his elder sisters, Mrs. Gray 
and Mrs. Barber, that they “ had better look out for 
Portia. She was dead in love with Charles Wayne, who 
was to keep the winter school at Rossville.’’ Here was a 
great to do ! There was a grand council in the afternoon 
of the next day, at Mrs. Barber’s, between the two ladies, 
at which Mrs. Harry Ross, wife of the eldest brother, 
assisted, — a dear, good, quiet, elderly lady, who rather 
liked the Waynes. She knew little of Charles, though 
she had pleasant recollections of him. 

“What is it all about?” she asked unconcernedly, as 
she came in. 

“ All about this young Charles Wayne and Portia,” 
said Mrs. Gray sharply. “I should think that was 
enough.” 

“Why, he is going to keep our school, and Theodore 
(her eldest) said he was glad of it,” she answered. 

“ I’ll warrant it, that is a part of the plan,” said the 
vexed Mrs. Gray. “How came that about, I wonder, 
Laura? ” 


22 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


“ Well, it seems that Mr. Marks, with his high, down- 
East notions, wrote to Mr. Waters, principal of the War- 
ren Academy, for the best young-man teacher known to 
him, and he recommended this Charles Wayne, and Marks 
hked him at an awful price ; and Portia declares she shall 
go to the school,” at which both the others held up their 
hands. 

“Well, what is it about Charles and Portia, anyway? ” 
asked Mrs. Ross. 

“ Enough, I should think,” said Mrs. Gray. 

‘ ‘ What does she say about it ? ” 

“ She only laughs,” replied Mrs. Barber. 

“ It must be bad,” replied the unconcerned Mrs. Ross. 

“ Dorcas, you never were with us in these family mat- 
ters,” said Mrs. Gray to her sister-in-law. 

At this moment Portia came clipping into the room. 
“ O aunt Dorcas ! ” and flying to the placid little dame, 
she threw her arms about her neck and kissed her with 
warmth. 

Portia had two nephews older than herself, and three or 
four nieces of quite her age ; and save Mrs. Barber, Rob- 
ert, and Mrs. John Ross on the hill, she called her brothers 
and sisters uncles and aunts. 

‘ ‘ Tell me what this fuss is all about ? ’ ’ asked aunt 
Dorcas of her, a little gravely. 

“All what fuss, aunt?” with a little gleam from her 
eyes. 

“You know well enough,” said Laura Barber. 

“ What is it? ” asked the girl, turning to aunt Gray. 

“This about 3^ou and this Charles Wa3'ne — of all fel- 
lers.” 

“ He is not a ‘ feller,’ aunt, and 3^ou shall not call him 
one,” with ga3^ spirit. 

“ The3^ sa3^ Charles is in love with her, and she don’t 
den3" it,” said aunt Gra3^ 


PORTIA MISTRESS OF THE SITUATION. 


23 


“I only hope he is,” said the girl with a laugh and 
coloring. 

“ And that she is just ” — 

A threatening finger from the young girl arrested the 
speech of aunt Gra3^ 

“ Well, Robert said we had better take care of you, any- 
way. I would lilie to know what that does mean,” said 
Laura. 

“ That you are to be my dear sisters, aunts, and mothers, 
as you always have been,” said the girl very sweetly and 
caressingly. 

“ Get along ! There is no doing any thing with j'ou,” 
said the still irate Mrs. Gray. 

Aunt Dorcas,” said the girl, “ how long is it since it 
was a crime for a simple little girl to be admired by a very 
nice 3’^oung man ? ’ ’ 

“Simple girl, nice j'oung man, indeed!” said Mrs. 
Gray. 

‘ ‘ I have heard a storj^ that when my father and these 
naughty girls,” with a look at her sisters, “ came into the 
countr}', a very sweet little Dorcas was brought all the 
wa3", and the da}^ Uncle Harr}^ was twenty-one thej^ were 
married; and,” turning to Mrs. Gray, “there was a 
3’oung Mr. Gray in the same company", and the cla^^ after 
my oldest sister was eighteen, they were married,” she 
said naivel3^ 

“Well, what of that? ” asked Mrs. Barber. 

“And as for Laura here,” turning to her, she was 
manied off when she was sixteen ; and the3" were in too 
much of a himy about it to be veiy particular about the 
bridegroom.” This was said in such a bright- spirited way 
as to provoke a laugh, in which Laura joined with the rest. 

“ I declare, it is too bad,” she finall3^ said. 

“ So they all said', as I understand,” rejoined the viva- 


24 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


cious girl. ‘‘ Now, here is poor little me ; I am nineteen 

— older than any girl of the family when she was married 

— and never a lover ; unless this — this ’ ’ — She laughed 
and blushed, and tossed her shining little head with saucy 
significance. 

‘‘And I don’t understand a word of what it is all 
about,” said the good-natured Dorcas. 

“ Nor I either,” answered the young lady. 

“ Well', there is one thing,” said Mrs. Barber decidedly, 
“ I will not have him snooping and sneaking about here, 
I teU 3’ou.” 

“ Nor will I,” said the girl, laughing. “ And, Laura, 
when you come to see him, you will be ashamed of that 
speech. He is not a snoop or a sneak. I hope he will 
call when you are all here.” 

“ I should really like to see him,” said aunt Dorcas. 

“ I don’t want to,” said Mrs. Gray with emphasis. 

“ And then he is to keep our school for four months ! ” 
added Mrs. Barber. 

“ Well, Laura, if he should take Warren in hand and 
make a good boy of him, what would you say?” asked 
Portia. 

“ I would give it all up and thank God,” was the reply. 

“ He will find a tougher job of it with Warren than with 
my silly little sister,” said the hard and unyielding Mrs. 
Gray. 

“ Will he, aunt Gray? Do you really think so? Now, 
you keep a real good watch of things ; follow Rob’s advice 
and take care of Portia, and a j^ear or two hence j^ou ask 
Mr. Wayne himself — only I am a little afraid he won’t 
undertake the ‘ sillj^ little sister,’ ” and then she ran crut of 
the room with a merry laugh. 

“ Oh, dear ! what can be done? ” exclaimed the vexed 
Mrs. Gray. 


PORTIA MISTRESS OF THE SITUATION. ' 25 

“ Well, I don’t see the need of doing any thing,” said 
Dorcas. 

“ I suppose you’d let things take their course.” 

“ Why not? The poor things will find trouble enough. 
For my part, I would smooth the way for young people.” 

“ Well, 3'ou’ll see.” 

The door-bell was faintly heard a minute before ; and 
then Portia came forward in a demure, arch way, attended 
by Charles Wayne himself. Had a small peal of thunder 
broke in the parlor, two of the ladies could not have been 
more astonished, and would have been less disconcerted. 

“Ladies, permit me to present Mr. Charles Wayne,” 
with mischief just glimmering in her wide gray eyes. The 
3'oung man went forward in a frank, unembarrassed man- 
ner quite irresistible. So surprised were they and discon- 
certed, that for the instant they seemed not to identify the 
animated, graceful youth before them with the reprobated 
5'oung man of the minute before ; and his presence and 
bearing brought them to their feet with the instinctive 
courtesy of the sex. 

“Mrs. Barber,” extending his hand, “may I hope to 
be remembered ? ’ ’ She placed her own within his reach, 
and he bowed over it in a way to fiatter most women. 
“Mrs. Gra}^, I can remember the first time I ever saw 
3^ou ; and, had I never met you since, I should recognize 
3'ou as Miss Ross’s sister,” with a glance at the young 
lady. 

Miss Ross was a very beautiful girl ; and the compliment 
to a woman of Mrs. Gray’s age was great, though not 
wholly undeserved. She did not receive him graciously ; 
but she gave him her hand, and muttered some indistinct 
words momentarily free from malice ; and then he turned 
to good Dorcas Ross, who received him with the cordiality 
he deserved. 


26 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS. 


“ My mother specially enjoined me to call upon you/’ 
he said. ‘ ‘ She had been to see j^our mother, and found 
her very cheerful, and she thought 3'ou would be glad to 
hear this from her ; and she knew I would be glad to deliver 
the message.” 

Aunt Dorcas was greatly pleased at his mother’s 
thoughtfulness, and obliged to him, and spoke of his 
school. 

Then he turned to Mrs. Barber again. “I did not have 
more than a, half-permission from Miss Ross to call. I 
hope I have not taken an unwalianted liberty ; and if j’ou 
will permit me sometimes to step in, without offence, I 
certainty will not abuse the kindness.” This frankly 
spoken. 

She managed to say that she expected he would call, of 
course, “ after meeting my sister at Warren, and that they 
should alwaj'S be glad to see him.” 

He knew it cost her a great deal to say this, and was 
gratified accordingly. 

Then he inquired for Mrs. Robert Ross. She was at 
John Ross’s on the hill. 

“ Oh, dear, I was always a little in awe of Mrs. John 
Ross ! ” and turning appealingly to Portia, “ Please take 
your hat and go with me. It is a lovely day out, and I 
am sure Mrs. Barber will permit this once.” AYith a flash 
of her eyes on her two sistera, the young girl tripped away 
for her hat, followed by the 3'oung man. 

Silence reigned for a moment after, when Mrs. Gray 
threw up her hands in a sort of dismayed horror. 

Oh, dear, did 3^00 ever ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ No, I never did,” was the candid response of Laura. 

“Was there ever any thing like that?” demanded 
Mrs. Gra3". 

“There certainty never was,” was Laura’s trank ad- 
mission. 


PORTIA MISTRESS OF THE SITUATION. 27 

“Here we were, ready to tear his eyes out, and in 
comes this little clipping witch of ours, leading him right 
in here ! Well, he is handsome — I must say that for him 
— and a gentleman born,” said Mrs. Gray. 

“ And you shook hands with him,” said Dorcas, laugh- 
ing. 

“ Well, what could I do? ” 

“ Why, you did the right thing ; and Laura thought his 
calling was just the thing, and asked him to call again,” 
and the little round dame actually laughed at them. 

“ Yes,” said Laura, “ I’ve made his ‘ calling and elec- 
tion sure,’ as the preachers say, I fear ; but what could I 
do? Of course he will call. We can’t beat him that 
way,” and they relapsed to brooding silence. 

“ Do you suppose this was arranged between them?” 
asked Mrs. Gray. 

“ Why, she was not absent from us two minutes,” said 
Dorcas. 

Rossville enjoyed the spectacle of the young people 
tripping along its one street toward the bridge and up the 
high bank ; Portia occasionally speaking, and casting 
quick sidewise glances at her silent companion, who 
answered absently. In his reception be saw more than 
the girl suspected — the old causeless enmity. Did she 
know of that? Share it? In a way, now, she was at 
home. What a complete change in her between Rossville 
and Warren! — the coy, sweet, docile little maiden and 
pupil at once transformed to the assured young lady of 
society ; and standing aplomb a full inch taller than when 
last he saw her. If she then seemed surrounded by the 
atmosphere of azure and gold which enveloped him, and 
which had vaguely admonished him that he might have to 
think and care for both in their relations, that impression 
was dispelled, and he was breathing quite common air 


28 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


now, rather cool and thin. Several times in their walk 
he turned to her with an inquhing, curious look. She 
was the same, but ver}^ different ; and he fancied there was 
playing about the ripe lips a covert smile, as if she was 
also conscious of the new light in which she appeared to 
him, and quite enjoyed it. 

They had a pleasant call, and Mrs. John Ross was 
reall}" veiy cordial to him. On their way back they met 
Warren Barber on the bridge. Charles stopped for a 
pleasant word with him. Portia almost trembled ; but 
Warren seemed really" pleased to meet the young man, and 
answered him very civillj" in the few words they had about 
Godolphin, quite a famous j'oung horse, and the only pos- 
session of 3’oung Wajme. 

As they passed along — ‘ ‘ Do you think you can do any 
thing with him?” asked Portia anxiously. “Will you 
try?” 

“Certainly I will. I am sure I can get along with 
him.” 

‘ ‘ How ? What will you do ? ” 

“ Well, I am still a good deal of a boy,” with a laugh. 
“ I like boys. I shall take a great fancy to Warren, and 
he will love me. Then I shall have no trouble.” 

‘ ‘ Is it easy for you ? ’ ’ she asked, with a side-look at 
him. 

‘ ‘ Easy for me — is what easy ? ’ ’ 

“ To win love.” 

“ A boy’s love — for a half boy ; that is hardly love,” 
hesitatingly, in the new light of the last few weeks on the 
subject. 

“Well, that other love — real love?” looking away. 
“ Is that easy? ” 

“ Is that easy to win? Oh ! I am afraid not. I don’t 
know as that is a thing to win, struggle for, and take by 
might,” he said, gravely. 


POETIA MISTEESS OF THE SITUATIOIT. 29 

“ How then? ” asked the rosy-cheeked catechist. 

“ That is high and holy — like God’s love. It seems 
to me to be a part of his love, and, like that, given.” 

“Given ? U nsought , unasked ? ” 

“It may be — for an answering love,” evasively. 

“ And you would have it given, not even asked for? ” 

“Where I loved with my whole soul, I should receive 
it as the most precious thing, however it might come, and 
still think I did not deserve it. ” 

“If it came to you at once, easily, you would not value 
it. You would not give much love for it,” naively. 

‘ ‘ I might not. ’ ’ 

The young man was intensely absorbed in this conversa- 
tion, while the girl put her searching questions with an air 
of gay persiflage. She greeted this answer with a merry 
little laugh, in which the young man, detected in the 
absurd solemnity of his part as it now seemed to him, 
cordially joined. 

Finally — “ And so you think it is to be laughed at? ” 
he added. 

“ The whole subject — that subject. But poor Warren. 
If 3^ou only can do something for him this winter,” anx- 
iously. 

“ Oh ! I wish every thing was as easy,” he answered a 
little depressed. 

“ But you don’t like things that are easy,” with 
another laugh and an arch glance-. 

“ Do you think Mrs. Barber would be glad if I should 
get Warren into the way of being a good boy? ” 

“What a question, Mr. Wayne ! Nothing in this world 
would be good enough for 3^ou,” with some emotion. 

“ You will see Miss Ross,” a little coldly. She looked 
up wonder ingly, but said nothing. 

The rest of the way back to her door was passed with 


80 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


few words. There he left her, and turned and walked 
thoughtfull}^ away. The 3"Oung girl let her e3"es follow him 
for a few steps, and then she entered the house with a 
thoughtful face, which reall3" quite became her. She may 
have been vaguely conscious of the threshold on which she 
stood. Perhaps she, too, fancied she had stepped over it. 
If so, she determined to turn back. 


WAHKEN — DULL BUT USEFUL. 


31 


CHAPTER IV. 

WARREN DULL BUT USEFUL. 

Portia’s light banter of her sister Laura was not with- 
out foundation. The most attractive of all the girls ex- 
cept the 3"oungest, there was a little crowd of admirers 
around her ere she passed childhood. Barber, a 3'oung 
man of substance, was the choice of her father ; and while 
3^et too 3’oung to have decided preferences, and before she 
was seventeen, she was maiTied. Her life was hapless. 
The newly wedded pair succeeded to the elders in the 
hotel ; and there her children were born, and all died but 
Warren. When he was ten 3'’ears old the}^ left it, in the 
vain hope of withdrawing him from the pernicious atmos- 
phere and surroundings of the place. The elder Ross still 
survived, and his later 5"ears were darkened b}^ constantly 
excessive drink. He divided up his large property", and 
the cover of the church and watchful care of his children 
were unequal to the concealment of his weakness. His 
frequent appearance on the street gravely intoxicated 
became too common to attract attention. This burden 
lay on all the family alike. Sore as it was to Mrs. Bar- 
ber, it was nothing to that of her onl^^ child, Warren, 
now fifteen. Peiwersc from infancy, as was said, he rap- 
idl}^ developed into viciousness. Neglected in childhood, 
and left to the chance influences of a thronged tavern, 
reeking bar-room and stables, he became a nuisance before 
he was eight, and a terror at ten. The removal of his 
parents to a new and pleasant home did not change his 


32 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


mode of life, or withdraw him from his old haunts and 
habits. At the time mentioned in the last chapter, he had 
become quite an outcast, without associates of any kind* 
save hostlers and stage-drivers. lie had a liking for 
horses, almost a passion, and showed at times a gleam of 
kindness toward Portia. He seldom spoke to his mother, 
quite disowned his father, and was rarely about their 
house. In eaidy childhood he partially learned to read. 
It was now many years since he had been in a school. 
Prayers, tears, punishments, whether applied too late or 
improperl3^, were alike inefficacious. His parents and rel- 
atives now seldom mentioned his name, and his mother’s 
onl}^ remaining hope was the chance that he might “ take 
a turn.” 

On the second day after the incidents named in the last 
chapter, Charles Wajme wished to visit his old medical 
instructor. Dr. Grant, at Charter, a few miles distant, to 
secure books for such study as he might find time for dur- 
ing the winter. He went^ through Possville. Godolphin, 
Dolphin, or Dolph, was onl}" four 3"ears old ; had been 
a pet and plaything a 3^ear or two before, in the j'oung 
man’s leisure, and taught all manner of horse-feats. The 
past months of idleness had rendered him very spirited, 
and on this morning he taxed the 3^oung man’s fine skill 
as a rider several times veiy seriousl3^ Just past the 
water-trough in the village, he declined to pass a wagon 
standing in the road ; and the efibrts of his master were 
unavailing, as were the efforts of the horse to part with 
his rider. Had the 3"oung man desired to attract atten- 
tion to his horsemanship, he was gratified, for the perform- 
ance was witnessed b3^ quite a crowd. Among others, 
Warren was conspicuous, between whom and the baffled 
horseman several words were exchanged. “Warren,” 
called the 3’outh, “3^ou must try him;” alighting at a 


WARREN — DULL BUT USEFUL. ' 33 

safe distance from the bugaboo. Warren eagerly" assumed 
his place in the saddle, when, as Charles preceded him 
toward the object of his terror. Dolphin quite readily ap- 
proached it. “I knew you could ride him, Warren, and 
I shall have to get you to tame him for me. Hide him up 
and down the street, and see how you like him,” which 
the pleased boy did with great eagerness. The horse was 
a beauty and exhibited himself to advantage, while his 
owner answered numerous questions concerning him. 

“ Ride him up here,” said the young man, who had 
mounted the platform in front of Marks’s store, several 
steps from the ground. Up this the horse wall^ed as 
readily as a dog would have done, to the astonishment of 
the spectators. 

“Well, if that don’t beat ine ! ” exclaimed the de- 
lighted Warren. 

“He would climb a ladder with you, Warren,” said 
Wayne. 

“ I believe he would. Will he go down these steps? ” 
he asked. 

“ Try him.” 

And Dolphin stepped down with unhesitating assurance 
to the renewed delight of his rider, who now dismounted 
to caress and admire him. 

“ Warren, what have 3^ou got to do to-day? ” asked the 
young man, as if he could have an}^ thing. 

“Nothin’.” 

“ Can you go with me over to Charter? ” 

“ Of course I can,” his face flashing up. 

“ Well, ride Dolph down to Brown’s and put him in the 
stable ; tell Brown we want a horse and buggy to drive to 
Charter. Then you go and ask you mother if you can 
go with me.” 

“All right,” and the boy rode away. 


34 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


“All but asking his mother,” said Marks, at which 
there was a general laugh. 

“ You get him to ask his mother, and I’ll be your grand- 
father,” said Henry Ross, who stood by. 

“Well, I don’t care so much about your being my 
grandfather, but you maj^ be my uncle,” answered the 
young man, laughing. 

“ All right,” said uncle Harry, joining in the laugh. 

It was but a few rods to the hotel, and soon after War- 
ren was seen running towards his mother’s house. Five 
minutes later, the boy, a little tidied up, came running to 
the store with, ‘^She says I can go'; and the buggy will 
be ready in ten minutes,” he said, quite out of breath. 

The men on the platform were too amazed for speech. 

“ I’ll see if that is so,” said Mr. Ross, starting off to ' 
inquire of his sister. He found her still under the effect 
of her surprise. 

“The strangest thing has just happened to me. Do 
5"ou believe it, Wari’en positively asked me, in a civil way, 
if he might go with Charley Wa^me to-day. What can it 
mean ? ’ ’ she said to her brother. 

ife, in answer, related the incident at Marks’s. 

“ Oh ! it is his doings, is it? ” she added. “ Well, if 
he can do that on the start ’ ’ — 

“You can hope everything,” said Portia. “ He was 
even willing to put on a decent coat and collar. ’ ’ 

“And I am to be Charles Wayne’s uncle,” said the 
man, turning to Portia, with a laugh. “What do you 
say to that, Portia? ” 

“ I will wait till he asks me, before I answer that, uncle 
Harry,” she replied gayly. 

“Oh, well, by George! you could do a good deal 
worse,” was his rejoinder. 

Warren returned that night, bubbling over with the 


■WARREN — DULL BUT USEFUL. 


■35 


incidents of the day, and remained in quite all the even- 
ing, recounting them to the willing ears of Portia, while 
his mother sat listening in incredulous silence. “ He had 
driven all the way, both ways, every step, and Charles 
had said that he was a first-rate driver, and told him all 
sorts of horse-stories, and he had eaten dinner at Dr. 
Grant’s with them all, and saw a skeleton and lots of 
things, and they brought away some books, and he was 
a-going to help about the school, to take care of the school- 
house. He was to be the jau — jan — something.” — 
“ Janitor, perhaps,” suggested Portia. “ Yes, j angler or 
something, of the schoolhouse ; and Dolph was to be kept 
at Brown’s, and they should break him to harness in the 
winter.” There seemed no end of things planned. For 
one day the poor outcast had been treated as a human 
being. The isolation and solitude that suirounded his 
young life had been dispelled, and the warmth and tender- 
ness of S3’mpathy shed upon hun. A man’s voice, a 3’oung 
man, bright, a half hero, had all one day been calling and 
speaking to him, and appealing to the dumb feelings and 
emotions that had never before stirred in the poor boy’s 
bosom. 

Three or four times he ended his narration, turned 
away, and then came back to renew it, or tell some for- 
gotten thing, or one already recited, returned to him. 

“Well, 3’ou are going to lilie him very much,” said 
Portia, as Mrs. Barber left the room. 

‘ ‘ Who ? Charley W a3me ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“ Of course I do. Don’t 3’'OU? ” 

“You should not ask me that.” 

“Why?” 

“ Why? Oh ! because — 3"es, I lilie him very well, of 
course, because, you see, he is going to take care of 3"ou.” 


36 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


“ He asked me lots of things about you,” said Warren, 

“ Oh ! he did ? That was funny ! What did he want to ] 
know, I wonder? ” * 

“ He thought I must like you very much and lots.” 

“ Oh, he did ! Why, I should like to know? ” 

“ He didn’t say.” 

“ What else did he say about me? ” ^ 

“ Oh ! I can’t remember. Lots ! ” | 

“Lots! Well, no matter. I’m glad you can’t re- 
member.” ‘ 

On the following Monday morning, Warren’s new friend 
rode into Rossville early on Dolphin, to commence his 
labors, which were to be severe. The school was large ; 
and a great many from the region around were to attend, 

— many 3'Oung men and women of his own age. Young 
Mrs. Marks gave him a fine room for the present. War- 
ren was on hand to care for the horse, had the school- g 

room swept and a fire made, and saw the opening. 

Below the outside callous with which earlj^ neglect, fol- j! 

lowed by open war, in which aU the world were against !! 

him, Charles fancied he discovered in AYaiven a quick, I 

warm, kindly nature, with no little native shrewdhess. < 

The boy was awfully profane, and lived at right angles J 

with the ordinary habits of civilized life. The 3"Oung I 

merchant and his wife quite entered into the enterprise of { 

winning the lad back, or of planting him anew in the hu- ^ 

man field where he might take root and develop the better ; 

instincts and elements of the common nature. Quite all 
the leisure of the young man was devoted to him for the 
first few weeks of the winter. He had him with him at 
Marks’s, where the bo3" came early in the morning and 
remained late in the evening, giving up his old haunts, and 
was led away from his old habits ; companions and asso- 
ciates he had none. His mother dressed him in a neat ‘ 


WAREEN — DULL BUT USEFUL. 


37 


new suit, and Charles taught him to care for his person ; 
and he came to like his clothes, and was pleased with his 
own appearance in them. The vices of his language were 
a sore lab3^rinth of foes, and the natural warmth of his 
temper had ripened to chronic i^etulance and irritability. 
It was not all smooth and easy between the new friends ; 
and AVarren ran off man^" times in a fit, or brooded for 
hours in a sulk. His mother passivel}^ and hopelessly 
jdelded him to the experiment, — could do no otherwise. 
His father, with whom he had not exchanged a word for 
months, absorbed in sordid mone^^-gettings, was onty too 
glad to have him removed from the places where the bo}^, 
spectre-like, sometimes crossed his path. Portia, sweet, 
thoughtful, and patient, was a full and hopeful ally. He 
was the one thing in common between them.' AA^ith her 
assistance AYaiven was easily induced to essay the alphabet 
and English literature. Here there was natural inapti- 
tude. This was overcome. He became greatly interested 
in narrations and stories, in which his friend excelled. 
AA'arren usuall}^ accompanied him home to his mother’s, 
where were the* books with illustrations, from which 
Charles had drawn some of the stories. There, too, he 
found Charles’s youngest brother, a vivacious youth about 
his own age, to whom he took at once. At first he stood 
in awe of the tall, grave woman, Charles’s mother. He 
soon overcame that, and then he lilmd her very much. He 
often went up there with Charles, sometimes on horseback, 
sometimes in a sleigh, in which Dolp worked beautifully. 
Finally it came to be understood that he was to spend each 
Sunday at Mrs. AYayne’s ; going home with Charles at the 
end of each week, and returning with him the ensuing 
Monday morning. At school he came and went at pleas- 
ure, but had no task or exercises there. Before spring, 
he was able to master the simpler stories of the books, 


88 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


and was quite *excited when he first discovered that he 
could extract the tale himself. Writing was easier, and 
he became quite an adept in the simpler problems of 
arithmetic. 

To Rossville, this turning him into the form, the habits, 
of civilized life, was a prodigy and a subject of constant 
comment. The poor boy found the world too kind and 
patronizing, and he shrunlv almost as quickly from its 
ostentatious overkindness as he had formerly from the 
harshness and cruelty with which it defended itself against 
him. As spring approached, and the end of his school 
drew on, Charles became very anxious for the future of 
his young charge. He could not have him with himself. 
All the Rosses except Portia and the famil}^ of Henry had 
looked coldly on his efforts to rescue the bo}^ He was 
the family enemy, was not only out of the church, but 
his family were Unitarians ; and at the best the child’s 
mother was only half-heartedl}^ interested in the redemp- 
tion of her offspring. The Markses were warmly enlisted, 
and Warren became much attached to them. It was 
finally arranged that he should be received into the store 
as a sort of property clerk, care for the horses, and make 
himself generall}^ useful. Charles had a real affection for 
the boy ; had a great compassion for every form of mis- 
fortune and suffering, which largely decided him to choose 
the medical profession instead of the law, against the ad- 
vice of his friends. Then he was near and dear to Portia, 
and the son of an implacable enemy ; and though to him 
it seemed all the time that the mother would rather the 
wretched boy should perish utterly than owe his rescue to 
him, he was determined that his utmost should be given 
to his redemption. 


THE WAY OF IT. 


39 


CHAPTER V. 

THE WAY OF IT. 

More than once, notwithstanding the discouragements 
and many doubts that awaited the young man’s efforts in 
the rescue of Warren, he mentally repeated his exclama- 
tory declaration to Portia, “Oh, I wish every thing was 
as eas}’^ ! ’ ’ He more than once recalled that singular 
conversation, and wondered what she really meant. 
Whatever it was, it certainly had not been very easy for 
him with her. At the end of his four-months’ sojourn at 
Rossville, so pleasant in many respects, so important in 
the results of his school, to all concerned, he admitted 
to himself with a long inhalation, that he stood toward 
the young lady in the same tantalizing, uncertain, hoping, 
fearing relation that he did at the beginning of the winter. 
She seemed unwilling that he should escape be3^ond re- 
call by a wave of her hand, and in some subtle waj^ she 
restrained his approach within a prescribed cu’cle. She 
came to school, and acted the pupil with the same apt 
docilit}" as at the academ}^ Outside when he met her she 
was the graceful, self-possessed, society 3"oung lady who 
met him on his first return from AYarren. From the two 
most powerful of her sisters, he became at once aware 
that he was to receive nothing but war waged b}^ all the 
methods known to the sex ; and, instead of finding in 
Portia a generous alty, she usualty exhibited herself in 
the colors of a neutral. He soon learned that while they 
opposed him, the}^ had an affirmative campaign for the 
disposition of the 3"0ung lad}^ 


40 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


In Warren he made the acquaintance of a young Wil- 
mot, a distant relative of Mrs. Robert Ross ; heavy of 
person, but reputed heavy of purse, which, in the e3'es 
of the house of Ross, beautified not only his form, but 
supplied all the mind needful. When Wa^me himself 
was inquired of concerning him, ere he was made aw^are 
of his rivalr}^, he described him as “A veiy clever fellow 
(American), and nearl}^ half witted.” The 3^oung man 
came on to Rossville during the holida3^s, made his head- 
quarters at Brown’s, where the 3'oung married Rosses 
lived, and opened a vigorous campaign, with Mrs. Gra3" 
and Mrs. Barber commanding the two wings. It lasted 
not quite two weeks ; and. notwithstanding the coolness, 
philosph3", and self-possession of Mr. Wa3me, the3^ man- 
aged to make it decidedly uncomfortable for him. The 
first week was signalized b3" a part3" at the Gra3"s’, to 
which Mr. Wa3me was rather ostentatiously not invited. 
This he could manage to endure. The second was illus- 
trated by a more extensive part3" given b3^ Mrs. Barber, 
who so managed that her invitation should reach him so 
late, and under circumstances, as to preclude his attending. 
In this transaction Portia was apparent^ concerned. It 
was a thing simply to be endured. On Portia’s return to 
school, it was not in the 3’oung man’s power to wear 
toward her precisel3" the same manner as before. At 
least, she detected it. Of course he would never refer to 
what had occurred, and she could not. There was at the 
tune a great deal said of the treatment to which the 3^oung 
man was subjected ; and the Rosses were talked over, 
almost to their faces, as the3" had not been since the pur- 
chase of the Wa3me propert3^ Indeed, those old matters 
were brought up again. So far as the public was con- 
cerned, Charles was more popular than ever ; but clearly 
there was one added obstacle between himself and the 


THE WAY OF IT. 


41 


young heiress. Some who narrowly watched the 3^oung 
people fancied a persistent effort on the part of the girl 
to compensate bj" her manner to him, or to show that ^ she 
in no way abetted the slight so openly put upon him. It 
was eas3" to see, too, that it was quite lost on him ; and 
several weeks passed before the bitterness was exorcised 
from his feelings. To the J^oung ladies and gentlemen 
under his care he was the obliging, interested, at times 
almost the inspired, instructor, and at the same time 
frank, courteous, and gentlemanly companion. He was 
no more than this to Miss Eoss. She felt the difference ; 
and, had she cared, she might have seen that there was a 
Ihnit bej^ond which, if repelled, he would not be likel}- to 
persevere in attentions to her. Too j'oung and uncom- 
prehending to know of the possible source of coldness 
between his dearest friends, Warren was conscious of a 
change in the atmosphere surrounding them. Portia 
would give him no light, and he did not ask the 3"oung 
man. Young Mrs. Stewart, who lived out on the other 
road, — a warm friend of the Waynes, and a very particu- 
lar friend and admirer of the medical student, whose 
husband, it was thought, could buy all Rossville at its 
own price, — proposed to give a part}" on his account, 
from which her friends dissuaded her for the time. 

With the close of his school young Wayne spared no 
time in the vigorous resumption of his studies. He might 
not hope ever to commend himself to the reigning powers 
and spirit of the house of Ross. He had many evidences 
that the youngest daughter would not object to him for 
lack of wealth or its expectations. He was ambitious, and 
eager to take his place in the world ; and not the least of 
his incentives was to win position, that he might finally 
offer himself under circumstances which would excuse her 
acceptance of him in the face of her family, if she would. 


42 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


Would she accept him ? It would not , mar his life if she 
did not, 3"et just how he should endm’e it if she refused him 
he would not now try to imagine. Something, some sort 
of assurance perhaps, he might obtain, to carrj^ him for- 
ward over the intervening years. That or the other thing. 
He had proposed to return to Warren ; but the advantages 
with Dr. Grant were quite equal, and he could not make 
up his mind to leave the neighborhood in the present state 
of his affair with Portia. He also was glad to remain 
near his mother, with whom he could live part of the 
time. Rossville was off his direct route to and from 
Charter ; but it was only a step remote from either place 
with the fleet, springy Dolphin. It is true, save War- 
ren and his few intimate friends there, he had no excuse 
for going to Rossville ; but, notwithstanding the active 
enmity of Laura Barber, he was equal to going to her 
house directly, and calling for the young lady herself. 
This enmity of her friends to him had never been referred 
to between the j'oung people, nor had their own relations 
been more than hinted at by the youth. The spring 
passed, and summer was running into autumn ; and while, 
at the few times he could manage to see Portia, she met 
him with a frank, stead}" kindness which perhaps under 
the circumstances meant much, it was not at all satisfac- 
tory to the young man, and he was not the least certain 
that he was making any advance in her favor. Her good- 
ness to him might mean nothing at all. 

The Stewarts, by the way of the roads, lived a mile and 
a half from Rossville. There was a footway through a 
charming region, passing a bit of beautiful forest, leading 
from their place on the west side of the river to the vil- 
lage, of not half that distance, and very much travelled. 
Mrs. Stewart was but a year or two older than Portia. 
They had always been very pleasant acquaintances, which 


THE WAY OF IT. 


43 


had within the last few months ripened into a decided 
friendship. Anne Stewart lilted Portia on her own ac- 
count very well — on Charles’s very much. She was quite 
sure it would be all right. Portia was a brave, true girl. 
Let him be patient. Of course Anne was an immense 
comfort to the young lover. She could not say much of 
the Rosses. • Dave Stewart was something of their style 
in viewing matters, as she thought with a sigh ; and that 
trait of Portia’s family was passed in silence. Mrs. Stew- 
art was on pleasant terms with all Rossville, and heard all 
the little village talk, which it were better she had not 
retailed to Wayne ; bift she did, and some of it annoyed 
him. She and Portia ran to one another by the pleasant 
path, and the young lady in a guarded way was ready to 
talk up her lover with his friend. Like every thing where 
he was concerned, she was very prudent, and said nothing 
that had any special significance. Charles was too manly 
and proud to attempt to woo through his friend, or even 
to make her a convenience. He never sent messages by 
her, or sought any advantage from her frequent meetings 
with the young lady. The Stewart house was on a road 
which he often passed over between his mother’s and Dr. 
Grant’s ; and he very usually stopped there, but had never 
been so fortunate as to meet Portia there. He did not 
attempt to open a written correspondence with the young 
lady. He scorned all but the most open and direct ap- 
proaches. He never sent her even a book by Warren. 
He waited till he could deliver them himself, as a lover 
would prefer to. He had for some time meditated a more 
decided step : an accident finally contributed the oppor- 
tunit}". 

■ On his return from Dr. Grant’s on the afternoon of an 
early September day, as he approached Stewart’s, he 
found the ladies saying last words at the gate, across the 


44 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


V 


road in front of the house, opening into a field traversed 
by the path referred to. As he rose the top of the hill on 
which the house stood, he saw them stand on the door- 
, step, linger at the gate, pause in crossing the road, and 
finally stop at the great gate on the other side. He sprang 
from Dolph, whose rein he attached to a post, and ap- 
proached them unnoticed. They again touched each 
other’s lips and stepped apart. 

“ They kissed and parted at the door, parted and kissed 
on the door-stone, kissed without parting at the gate, 
walked with embracing arms across the road, and sustained 
each other with kisses at the final farewell. Who would 
not say adieu under such consolations? ” he cried gayly to 
them, approaching. ‘‘Pray, ladies, part that way with 
me,” and the three joined in a pleasant little laugh. 

“ He half deserves one for his wit,” said Anne. 

“His audacity rather, if at all,” said Portia, coloring 
at the mere idea. 

“Kisses impart wisdom, they say,” said the young 
man gravely. 

“Oh, what long years since you had one ! ” cried Portia 
with another laugh. 

“ Pray give me wisdom,” with a plaintive voice, prof- 
fering his lips playfully. 

“ When I have lost the last vestige of all I ever had,” 
was her answer. 

“ Ah ! that would prove that none but fools kiss. That 
is not my theory,^’ he replied. 

‘ ‘ She would be a fool who ’ ’ — 

“ Kissed a woman when other lips were by,” he inter- 
rupted her with. 

“Do you two talk this way when you are alone?” 
asked Anne. 

“ She never permits me to be alone with her,” said the 
young man gravely. 


THE WAY OF IT. 


45 


“ When last we met he did not talk at all,” she replied 
to Anne. 

“What I would have said I dared not, and common 
things were unworthy to be said to her,” was his re- 
sponse. 

“ There, Portia, what can you say to that?” said Anne, 
laughing. 

“ Such silence is golden,” with a little color. 

There fell a silence, when the young man with his 
usual directness said to Miss Ross, — 

“I very, very much want to go to your father’s vill. 
Please permit me to walk down with you.” Its playful 
manner relieved it of gravity. 

“ Pray, when you were at the Comers, why did you not 
ride there, Mr. Wayne?” she asked. 

“ I did not want to go then ; ” with absolute candor. 

“When did the wiph to go first take you?” asked 
Anne. 

“ When my eyes met the form of Miss Ross.” 

He threw open the gate, Portia passed, he followed, 
closed it, and walked along by her side. It was a deli- 
cious afternoon, rich with creamy sunshine, and musical 
with the monotonous chant of the late summer crickets 
and grasshoppers. Anne stood looking after them, the 
beautiful pair, as they moved slowly down the slope into 
the little valley, with their gay voices fioating back to her. 
As they rose the winding way on the other side, and 
turned to avoid a bend in the near river, her eyes stiU fol- 
lowed them till they entered the dark, still green wall of 
leaves which hedged the field round at the margin of the 
wood, bearing on their forms the warm color of the sun’s 
rays under its dark arched way. A moment golden 
bright they seemed to stand, and then melted into the 
shadow of the wood. She looked an instant after they 


46 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


disappeared, then turned and walked thoughtfully toward 
the house. A low call from Godolphin drew her atten- 
tion. She approached and caressed the beautiful animal. 
“He has deserted you. Has he gone and left you? 
You don’t understand it, do 3^ou? He may bring 3^ou a 
beautiful mistress some time. Do 3^011 hope he will. Dol- 
phin? ” and the knowing creature, with his human ways, 
nodded his head as he had been taught, as if that was his 
wish. “ She is a woman, and 3"ou can trust her, can’t 
3'ou?’’ and he lifted his head, and gave a look down the 
way they went as if that was a matter for grave consider- 
ation. Then he neighed loudl3^, as if he would call his 
3'Oung master back. 

“You say nay to that, do 3"ou? Well, we will see, 
Dolphin.” 


WHAT CAME OF IT. 


47 


CHAPTER VI. 

WHAT CAME OF IT. 

Brightly and gayly his words ran on as they went down 
into the low ground. As they rose the other side, he be- 
came silent, abruptly so ; and Portia" saw that his face had 
completely changed its expression, and his idle words 
ceased as of themselves. Slowly they rose the hill, and 
silently passed the, opening through the bank formed of 
the thick-growing small trees and brush, where Anne lost 
sight of them. Holding herself steadily, the young girl, 
after one or two efforts to dispel the ominous silence, 
walked on in mute expectation by her silent companion’s 
side. 

‘ ‘ What I said at the gate — that what I wanted to 
say, I dared not, was true,” he began. There was a 
strain in voice, in spite of him ; and Portia was startled 
a little. “ I knew I should surprise 3"ou. Don’t, for the 
world, be alarmed. Miss Ross. Things must some time be 
said to young ladies. I will not now say all of what must 
some time be said, if you permit it. Some time, I hope I 
may ask of 3^ou all — all that a man can ask of a woman.” 
His voice -half broke with the burden of the last words, 
and he moved on for several steps — and ver}^ slowly, as 
b\" their common S3^mpathy. Then, quite master of him- 
self, and very warmly, “You must know that in all the 
world, there can be but one girl, one 3'oung lady, one 
woman for me ; and that she is your precious self.” 

“How should I know that?” after a moment, and 


48 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS. 


quite her re-assured self, as the great question was not 
then to be asked. 

“ By .all my conduct for this' year past : I don’t mean to 
leave it to inference and doubt. My whole heart has gone 
out to you, as it goes but once in life, with homage, rever- 
ence, worship, with enthe devotion, unselfishly.” The 
fervor of his voice left no doubt of the intensity of his 
earnestness and perfect truth. “ I know you believe this. 
I want, if I may, to win the one return — some time. I 
cannot complain. To me you are so surrounded, by those 
dearest to you, with enmity to me, that I cannot approach 
3"ou as 3' oung men may usuall3" approach the 3^oung women 
of their acquaintance, and win their favor if they may. 
Your sister, however, is so bitter toward me that she 
would rather Warren would remain as he was than* be 
rescued through me.” 

“ Mr. Wa3me,” spiritedly, “you shall not speak to me 
in that wa3". You cannot, if what 3'OU have just said is 
true.” 

They walked on some 3^ards. 

“It was unfortunate, ’perhaps — unfortunate that I 
attempted to speak at all. If so, I can be easil3^ answered. 
I did not mean so much to cast reproach on 3"our sister as 
to bring to 3^our notice the difficult3^ under which I labor. 
Though 3^ou ma3" not care for that, — may be glad of it.” 

“You thought it would be eas3", Mr. Wa3me, if 3"ou 
thought ^of it at all,” smiling archl3", was her repty. 

Another silence of two or three minutes, and the girl 
began to think he would not resume. 

His spirit was touched by her words. 

“ I did not expect any assistance from 3"ou. I did not 
mean to merit such words.” After a pause : “What I 
wished to ask, and all I dared to hope for now, is that, 
knowing my sentiments towaixis you, you would consent 


WHAT CAME OF IT. 


49 


to regard me as a suitor ; one who approached you for the 
purpose, if possible, of winning the highest regard 3^ou 
can bestow on a man.” 

“ I do not know as I now understand you, Mr. Wayne 
— what you would wish.” After a moment’s pause: 
“ There is nothing you ask me to do. I should be less a 
woman than I am if I could hear such words from 3"ou 
unmoved or without gratitude — that you hold me so 
'highly.” 

“ I have no wish, no purpose. Miss Ross, to see j^ou 
further, to call upon you, be received by j^ou, except as 
one who calls and sues ibr 3"our highest favor. This is 
much to ask. I do ask it. If 3"ou cannot accord it, ac- 
cident alone must cause us to meet in the future, if we 
ever do.” 

“ And I should manage to endure it,” she was going to 
say. She checked herself. She was so entirely mistress 
of the position that there were a thousand temptations to 
torture him a little, but his face was so grave, palid in 
fact, and his voice so deep, earnest, and thrilling; and, 
then, he had said words to her that should set apart such 
a man as sacred, at least to respect and tender considera- 
tion. 

“ I mean, why may not things go on as they are — as 
they have done? ” A different thing entirely. 

“ Oh ! they can, if such is j^our wish. If, on what I have 
said, 3"OU think me entitled to no more consideration than 
3"Ou accord to all 3^our gentleman acquaintances, that is 
just the thing.” 

“ Perhaps,” laughing and blushing, “perhaps old fash- 
ioned Sunda3''-night sparkings, sitting up all night, would 
meet 3^our views, Mr. Wa3me?” There was a touch of 
iron3' in this. 

“ M3’ views had not gone quite so far back. Besides,” 


50 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS. 


with a smile, “ I heard it whispered that the youngest and 
most favored daughter of a House had made it understood 
that gentlemen would not be permitted to remain in her 
society after an early hour of the evening, to which there 
were no exceptions.” 

“Ten o’clock, Mr. Wayne. You were correctly in- 
formed, though I believe no proclamation was ever made ; ” 
very gravely this was said. 

“ Every lady has an unquestioned right to attach such 
conditions as she pleases to the avenues of approach to 
her. I am not learned in this matter. Possibl}’, a lady 
willing to go so far as to receive a gentleman as a suitor 
would be willing, on his request, to advise him when he 
might hope to find her at leisure,” he replied. 

“Oh, that is too formal ! All the world would soon un- 
derstand and talk about it. ’ ’ 

“ All the world of Rossville.” 

“ This is so new to me, I must think it over ; ” and she 
walked on gravely, as if turning the interesting subject in 
that exquisite little head of hers. 

“ It commits you. to nothing in the world. Miss Ross, 
except to permit me to see 3'ou at some named time. You 
can cancel even that. You certainly need not name 
another time ; and you wiU be just as free to refuse me 
afterward as you are to-day.” 

‘ ‘ But it is awful — this naming some time when 3^ou 
may call. It don’t seem to 3^011 as it does to me, or 3’ou 
would not ask it. Do you know, Charley ” (she never 
called him Charley before), “ I have alwa3"S thought that 
you were the most generous and noble-hearted of men, 
and would not ask an3^ thing of me, would never com- 
plain of me, nor think illy of me, and now 3'ou distress 
me so terribly ! 3^ou frighten me. -Let things remain just 
as they are, please.” 


WHAT CAME OF IT. 


51 


“ Certainl}^ ; just as you please, Miss Ross : the matter 
is whollj^ in j’our hands,” a little coldly. 

Surely he ought to have been willing to leave it where 
it was, after such a whole-souled, hearty little speech. 
Indeed, he might have inferred a great deal more than was 
said. Most men would ; but he did not, nor was he then 
at all pleased. He, however, said no more, and began to 
talk about Warren, whom he had not seen for several 
weeks, and found that he was getting on very well and 
hopefull}’, was regularly at home at night, was interested 
in his books, and constant in his inquiries about his friend 
Charley Wayne. 

Portia, relieved of the burden which the young man’s 
words had laid upon her, flashed up wonderfully about 
Wan’en, on whom her deeply disturbed emotions effer- 
vesced in quite a rapture. 

“ O Mr. Wayne ! how grateful and happy, how proud — ■ 
onl}^ it is not a thing to excite pride — 5^011 must be that 
you could do this gi’eat thing for Warren,” turning her 
ej^es upon him, now -tender with feeling, and dewy with 
tears. 

‘ ‘ Do you remember of my wishing that some other 
things might be as eas}^, and the funny questions you 
asked me ? ” was his answer. 

A bright flash came over the face, doubly beautiful with 
emotion, as it turned suddenly from him. Forward they 
went, the youth still grave, the maiden with flushed face 
and suffused eyes, through the wood and along the high 
cliff}" bank of the river, till they approached the residence 
of John Ross the younger, where Portia proposed to call, 
and where she would part with her lover. “ My lover,” 
“ A very lover,” her heart was saying. Or, after all, was 
it only a highly-colored fancy ? While yet in the open field 
she turned to him, with the ruddy color deepening on 
cheek and brow, — 


62 


THE HOUSE OF KOSS. 


“ Mr. Wayne, will you be quite at leisure Sunday even- 
ing next, at about six? ” she asked ingenuously. 

“ Entirely at leisure,’’ with an eager flash of his e3"es. 

“We have our Sunday evening supper at six or a little 
later. Sometimes there are some of the outside of the 
family there ; often we are alone. It will give Mrs. Bar- 
ber great pleasure to have you come and take supper with 
us. You will have a pleasant reception from her, I am 
sure.” 

“Mrs. Barber! Thank you,” with fervor. “It will 
give me the greatest pleasure imaginable.” 

“We have before spoken of inviting you,” she said, 
‘ ‘ but something always prevented. ’ ’ As he knew it had 
too well. 

“ Thank you. Miss Ross ; and I will not trespass on the 
inevitable rule,” with a laugh. 

“ Mrs. Barber does not enforce the rule on her guests,” 
she said, a little archly. 

“Oh, on her guests I ” a little gravely. 

They had a very pleasant little call, and were received 
with marked kindness by Mrs. John Ross. Something 
very sweet she saw in the face and manner of the maiden ; 
while the 3'outh, though less exhilarated, was in the pleas- 
antest possible spirits, and she drew the happiest auguries 
of these two. 

There he left her, and went light-heartedly back along 
the now shining way. Was it not, he mentally^ queried, 
all he asked, all he wished? It was, and it was not. One 
thing should certainly have satisfied him, and it did argu- 
endo. He had made a direct, broad, explicit declaration 
of love, onl}^ with less copious language, and under more 
restraint than expressed all he wished to say, and she was 
not displeased — was pleased, was really quite radiant. 
He had never seen her so lovely as when he left her. She 


WHAT CAISIE OF IT. 


53 


had even acknowledged him a suitor, invited him and 
would receive him as such — onl}^ he was the guest of Mrs. 
Barber. What did she mean by that ? What did he care 
if it pleased her ? It was her coy, arch way, and he recalled 
her praises of him. She did not reject his love ; knew he 
would propose formally at some time, and she gave him 
that direct encouragement, knowing how he would receive 
it, that he had asked for it ; and so when he reached the 
woods he sang a lively air. Anne Stewart saw that some 
pleasant thing had happened, and Dolphin whinnied his 
approval of the whole affair. 

I suppose it never occurred to Charles that in this after- 
noon’s performance of tr3dng to take and score a step for- 
ward, he had been the least priggish, and that it would 
have been as well to have cast his ultimate destiny into the 
hands of Portia at once, and let her settle it and him if she 
would. He thought it would be unkind, perhaps unjust to 
her, to do that. He certainly was warranted in finding 
out if he could the tendency of his prospects, and govern 
himself according^. Perhaps business principles should 
govern courtship. 

Mrs. Barber received Mr. Wayne quite graciously that 
Sunday evening. Warren was greatly- elated, Mr. Barber 
was as civil as he knew how. There were, in addition, 
Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ross and the eldest son and daughter 
of Henry and Dorcas, who had been pupils of Charles, 
and were his warm friends and admirers. Portia was 
sweet, demure, and a little conscious, with the warm blood 
quite at fiood in her cheeks. Charles, who had much 
humor, and was sometimes witty, was in an exhilarated 
vein, and said some very happy things. After supper, 
Portia, himself, and Warren went home with Warren’s 
cousins and spent the evening. On their return, Theodore 
Ross managed to detach WaiTcn, and Charles was left to 


54 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


walk back with Portia, the only time, as he noticed, that 
he was alone with her, and it was so late that he felt that 
he was not at liberty to expect an invitation to enter the 
house again. lie was not invited. Portia indulged him 
with a leisurely walli home, and he was so fresh and simple 
in his feelings that the light touch of her little ungloved 
hand on his arm quite thrilled him. As they drew near, 
she said that Laura commissioned her to ask him to call 
again, when it should meet his convenience. Then came 
up the question — when might he feel at liberty to do so? 
Portia did not know, — suggested within five or six weeks. 
He laughingly proposed three or four. Then she explained 
that Miss Bronson, whom he remembered, would be there 
in a few days for a long stay. He remembered Miss 
Bronson as a youngish old girl, or a well-advanced 3^oung 
one, who had shown herself willing to be cultivated. Just 
wh}' her presence should be urged as a dela}^ was not ex- 
plained, nor did he ask. Another impending visitor was 
not mentioned ; and the j^oung lad}^ laughingl3" proposed 
four or five weeks as a compromise, and he pla3Tully as- 
sented to the shorter period. Then he was permitted to 
raise the hand which he held for the minute or two, as 
the3^ stood alone by the front door, and press his lips upon 
it, and she vanished inside. He found AYarren sitting on 
Godolphin waiting for him. Bidding him a ga3" good- 
night, he mounted and went with bounding heart and a 
spring3^ gallop across and over the intervening hills toward 
Charter. 


THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 


65 


CHAPTER Vn. 

THE COURSE OP TRUE LOVE. 

Mrs. Stewart’s party came off on Thursday of the third 
week after Charles’s visit to Rossville, — quite a select lit- 
tle affair. She had the young ladies in the afternoon, and 
the 3’oung gentlemen in the evening, which began early on 
that day, as it was known the young ladies would be wait- 
ing. Among the ladies was Miss Bronson ; and with the 
gentlemen came Mr. Wilmot, who arrived at Rossville 
that day, and for whom a special invitation was secured. 
Things happened curiously that evening. Some thought 
the affair referred to was b}- conspiracy ; and Anne, in her 
bitterness, accused Portia of being a part}" to it, as she was, 
in a very funny way. Quite earl}^ in the evening a pair 
of violin-plaj'ers appeared, and were placed in the immense 
old-fashioned kitchen and dining-room of what had been a 
part of the old farm-house. Miss Bronson was a strict 
Presbyterian, and could by no possible means or persua- 
sion be induced to remain. Return to Rossville she must, 
and some gentleman must attend her. The 3'oung ladies 
from Rossville had walked up the very pleasant by-road, 
and carriages would be there for their return. 

Portia at once went to Charles Wajme, who came over 
from Charter on horseback, and was obliged to return that 
night. 

“Mr. Wayne, I have a very special service to ask of 
you,” with a look of persuasive sweetness. 

“Any thing you wish. Miss Ross, shall be a command.” 


56 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


“I will not lay it on you in that form, Mr. Wayne. 
Miss Bronson feels obliged to return immediately. She 
cannot go alone.’’ 

“I shall attend her with pleasure, if she permits; and 
not without pain, as it takes me from you,” was his an- 
swer. 

“You are very obliging and very complimentary, and 
it shall be a courtesy rendered to both of us. She will 
appreciate it. She is a good walker; and, though the 
moon shines, I can trust you to go by the shortest road,” 
with a smile. “ She will be ready at the front door in a 
minute.” 

She was as bright and sweet as she could be, and the 
poor fellow was already compensated. He hastily excused 
himself to Anne, who at first did not quite understand 
the import of his words, found his hat and a boy to take 
his horse to EossviUe, and went to the front door, where he 
could hear the moving strains of the violins. The dance 
had just opened. Some time elapsed ; Miss Bronson lin- 
gered, but Anne dashed up to him with — “How came 
this ? Are you really going ? ’ ’ 

“ I must. She requested it.” 

“ She ^ who?” 

“ Portia.” 

“Portia! You are sold! She wants to be rid of 
you.” 

“ Rid of me ! ” 

“Ha, ha, ha! How could she manage with you and 
Wilmot both, do j^ou suppose? ” 

“ Perhaps she was sold herself. ” 

“ She is too sharp for that. I would not go.” 

“I must. She wished it.” 

“ Where is the little pussy. Well, good-night. I 
shan’t see you again.” He laughed. “I shall not. 


THE COHESE OF TEUE LOVE. 


57 


You will see ; ” and she flew to the dressing-room, where 
the deliberate Miss Bronson was leisurely arra^dng her 
person for exit; and Portia, after- vainly attempting to 
aid her, was nervousl}^ watching the uninteresting process. 

Seeing Anne with severe face at the door, she turned to 
her, — 

“ Is this your work — sending Charley Wayne off with 
this old — why, he is the guest of the evening : the party 
was made for him.” 

“ I am sorry. What could I do? 

“ Send somebody else. Why didn’t you come to me? ” 

“ She knew Mr. Wayne.” 

“And didn’t know Mr. Wilmot? Ha, ha, ha! O 
Portia!” 

“ He is a stranger. You would not ask that of him. 
I knew Mr. Wayne would do it to oblige me. I felt' at 
liberty to ask him,” with the color warm in her cheeks. 

“Yes, and you send him away. His presence might 
be embarrassing. You are shrewd.” 

‘ ‘ Anne Stewart — what can you mean ? ” 

“ He is sharp enough to see through it.” 

“ Wh}", you awful girl ! ” with a diminution cf color. 

“You shall make nothing by this move — saarp little 
general as you are — in the long run, now remember.” 

Portia did not attempt to reply ; did not think that 
Anne meant all she said, perhaps. She merely added: 
‘ ‘ He will not be gone over an hour ; he has sent his horse 
down, and they will walk across the fields.” 

The answer was a scornful laugh, ending with, “You 
will not see him again to-night, and don’t expect to — ■ 
and I hope you won’t; that will be some punishment! ” 
And she flew away, leaving Portia disconcerted. 

Evidently the heavy Miss Bronson was preparing to 
make a night of it.' She was finally ready ; and Portia 


58 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


conducted her down the broad stairs, where her lover was 
awaiting her approach. He received her in silence, with 
hardly a glance at Portia, and she thought he looked a 
little gloomy ; and she would gladly have said a cheery 
word to him, but with a bow to her, he gave his arm to 
her friend, and, after watching them to the front gate, 
Portia turned and wallved toward the dancing-room, and 
sought the hostess. 

“ What did j^ou mean, Anne? ” she asked seriously. 

“ Who did first propose the name of Charles Wa3me to 
attend her? ” was Anne’s response. 

“ She said she was acquainted with him, and I went to 
him of course.” 

“And she will find the means of detaining him, and 
he must return to Charter to-night. He came this after- 
noon on purpose to attend 1113^ part3^” She passed her 
hand around her friend’s slender waist caressing^. “ You 
don’t wonder I was impatient, do 3^011? And now 3"OU 
must do 3’our best to make this pleasant. Of course he 
will come back, if he escapes that old cat.” 

Young Wa3me was missed ; and it became known where 
and why he was absent, and some comments were made. 
The lights were brilliant, the music livety, spirits were 
ga3", and hearts and feet light. Anne quite forgot her 
vexation ; and in the devotion of Wilmot, and the general 
admiration to which she was accustomed, the heart of 
Portia evidently was not with the 3’outh she had sent 
awa3^ 

Time sped : the 3"oung man did not return, and Anne 
tried in vain to catch the e3'es of the unconscious Portia. 
Seemingly she was absorbed in the attentions of her suitor 
and the 3^oung men about her. After eleven Anne ap- 
proached, and placed a slip of paper in Portia’s hand on 
which was written in pencil : — 


THE COUKSB OP TETJE LOVE. 


59 


“Your foreboding was true. As you know, I am 
obliged to be at Charter early in the morning. Good- 
night. C. W.** 

“ It was handed me by the driver of your carriage,” 
Anne explained. 

“And what did you forbode?” asked Portia, with 
seeming indifference. 

“ I told him he was sold, and would not be back here 
to-night. ’ * 

“Oh, yes, that was what you said to me ! ” and she 
moved lightly away in the dance. 

“And somebody will be paid for this,” was the men- 
tal comment of the hostess — “and before long, too, I 
hope.” 

With Miss Bronson’s hand within his arm, the 5^oung 
man moved across the highway toward the great gate 
opposite. 

“I am not going that way, Mr. Wayne,” she said, 
stopping. 

“Indeed, it is much the nearest and pleasantest,” he 
answered. 

“We came up that way. It is lonel}^, and there are 
woods there ; and I do not choose that any 5’oung gentle- 
man shall be able to sa}^ that he walked alone with me 
over that way by moonlight,” primly. 

“Miss Ross must have given me a very indifferent 
character.” 

“ She gave you an excellent character. I must think 
of every thing.” 

“Now, if any thing tragic should happen, for instance, 
think how romantic and picturesque the surroundings 
would be,” he said playfully. 

“ But I might not be murdered,” with a laugh. 

“The road is nearly two miles,” — it seemed six to 


60 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


liiTr> then — “ hilly and lonely, with bits of woods border- 
4ng it, and some parts of it lie on the river’s very 
margin, where any thing may happen,” he urged still 
playfully. 

“Oh, I am enchanted! We will certainly go by the 
road, Mr. Wayne.” 

He hesitated. ‘ ‘ Permit me to conduct you back, for 
one instant. There are three or four buggies with horses 
ready harnessed, and you will go much easier,” he 
urged. 

“ And more expeditious, Mr. Wayne. Now, your liege 
lady directed you to walk home with me,” she said. 

“ I quite remember her wish — her lightest is law to me ; 
but to walk this distance for a oung lady is a serious un- 
dertaking.” 

“And I am a serious young lady, Mr. Wayne. I am 
not in the least hurry. My ‘ loan of a lover ’ is for the 
expedition ; and you are to look for your reward to your 
mistress, you know ; and the more exacting I am, the 
greater your self-sacrifice, the greater will be your recom- 
pense, of course. Let that console you, Mr. Wayne.” 

“ I accepted the quest unreservedly. Miss Bronson ; and 
those permitted to serve ladies usually find that, like other 
virtues, it brings its own exceeding great rewai’d.” 

“ Your sentiments do 3^ou honor ; and you are doubtless 
wise in not stipulating with the sovereign Portia as to 
what your reward shall be,” a little ironically. 

And they walked along to the hill and down it in 
silence. 

“ What a perfect little heroine she is ! I don’t wonder 
you j^oung and susceptible fellows are bewitched by her, 
and so ready to be pla3"ed oflf and on and against each 
other by her,” she said vivaciously. 

“ Peally, Miss Bronson, you are quite confusing.” 


THE COUKSE OF TEUE LOVE. 


61 


“To one already dazed, Mr. Wayne. Do you know 
much about girls ? ’ ’ 

“ Not a thing,’’ with perfect candor. 

“ I think I’ve been told you had no sisters? ” 

“Not one. I grew up with bo3^s wholly.” 

“ That makes you charmingly fresh and simple. You 
believe in girls, in Portia, — wise young judge, sweet child 
that she is ? ” 

“ Of course. Why shouldn’t I ? ” 

“And you would never dream that you were at this 
moment a delicious victim of one of her sweet little 
schemes ? Of course not. Who could suspect that httle 
head ? ’ ’ 

“ Why, Miss Bronson, what do you mean? ” •• 

“ And then she has a little heart, just enough to make 
her charming, and not enough to interfere with the little 
head’s plans.” 

“Miss Bronson, she thinks you her friend,” a little 
severely. 

“ The truest she has. Am I not proving it to-night by 
relieving her of your presence a whole evening long ? ’ ’ 

“ It is easy enough to relieve herself of me,” said the 
youth with spirit. 

“ Poor child : she don’t wish it — that is, only for this 
night.” 

“ And why this night, pray? ” 

Her answer was a peal of merry laughter. 

“ It certainly is a proof of your devotion to her, if what 
you say of your part is trae,” said the young man, a little 
disconcerted. He could not wholly forget the words of 
Anne Stewart to the same effect. 

“ Do you think it nothing to wander through this soft 
night, under the moon, with a handsome young man, who 
would be elsewhere, and tease and torture him? It was 


62 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS. 


devotion to mischief quite as much. Oh ! you deserve well 
at her hands, and I shall be curious to know what reward 
she gives you.’’ A few steps of silence. “You asked 
me why she could wish your absence to-night. Perhaps 
she wished to show her power over you. She knew I 
could endure the music and dancing, — that I rather like 
them.” 

The young man made up his lips for a whistle, but fore- 
bore to sound it. 

“ Still I don’t see,” he added. 

“No, deliciously blind boy, like all the loves. Why, 
bless its heart, there were two of 3^ou ! ” 

“ Do you call Wilmot a love? ” 

“ Ha, ha, ha ! That is goodish. What was it you said 
of him, — that he was a clever fellow and devilish near 
half-witted? It was awfully profane, but its wit made it 
tolerable . W as that it ? ” 

“ I refuse to remember any thing about Wilmot. I deny 
there is such a man.” 

“ He is very real to-night, Mr. Wayne. And it can’t 
see why there should be but one ? ” 

“ She could be certain of my discretion. I am sure I 
am not jealous and troublesome.” 

“ Oh, dear ! no ; why should j^ou be, of the nearly half- 
witted? Don’t be too sure — too sure, Mr. Wajme. A 
fine person, wit, talents, genius, would win against King 
Midas, with maidens made up after jom ideals. Portia 
is of another pattern.” 

‘ ‘ And 5^ou are her friend ! I will not hear jrou criticise 
her.” 

“ It is not necessary to praise her to you, and you had 
better hear me. She greatly admires you, and loves 3^ou 
just the least bit iu the world. Is proiid to have j^ou de- 
voted to her — don’t intend to cast you off — at present.” 


THE COUESE OF TETJE LOVE. 


63 


“ Ah-li-h ! You are very good,” sarcastically. 

“Her sisters are your mortal enemies. She has the 
family appreciation of wealth. She comes to see the dif- 
ference. Wilmot is rich. She will be in no hurry. I 
think 3^ou know that. Don’t be too certain, Mr. Wayne.” 

‘ ‘ I won’t, ’ ’ laconically. 

A pause. “ There, am I not judicious? and how is this 
inconsistent with the truest friendship? ” she asked. 

Her companion walked on in silence for some time. 

“You would be patient and self-sacrificing. She could 
trust 5^ou. But how might it be with Wilmot? ” 

“ What about Wilmot, pray ? ” he asked. 

“ Stupid as you think him, he could hardly be with 
Portia and yourself, with your friends and admirers 
around, and she obliged to divide herself between you, 
without his suspecting. Then he would ask, and some- 
body would tell, what most people know. Do you see? ” 

“Well!” 

“Well, she don’t want to be rid of Wilmot, nor be 
obliged to explain. Possibly that throws some light on 
the position of some of the gentlemen whom j^ou know, 
Mr. Wayne.” 

“ And what light does it throw on your friend? ” 

“That she is a true woman, and her name Portia. 
Don’t you choose from all the world? We cannot, but 
surely she might have time to choose between two. Oh, 
you thought the world was all your own ! It lies for you 
in one little waist. It seemed easy to put your arms 
about it.” 

To say that the young man was not moved, greatly dis- 
turbed, would do injustice to the ingenuity of his lady 
mentor. They crossed the river, reached the road on the 
other side, which led to Rossville, a mile away, turned 
the acute angle, and walked slowly forward, the lady reg- 


64 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS. 


ulating the gait at which they moved, which was of the 
slowest. As they went, the young man attempted to 
speak of two or three indifferent things, but found himself 
unable to break the weird spell of distrust and foreboding 
so subtly woven about him. As they turned south along 
the river under its eastern high bank, wood covered, they 
were quite in shadow ; and the chill air of the river valley 
smote the blood and spuit of the youth with a nervous 
tremor like an ague, which he could hardly control. 

“I wonder,” resumed the pitiless woman, “how she 
will manage next Sunday evening ! I confess I am looking 
forward to it with much anticipation. Wilmot will be 
there, and she can hardly send 3’ou off to walk with me,” 
laughing. 

“The devil!” was the young man’s mental exclama- 
tion. “ She knows every thing: of course she is a confi- 
dant.” 

“ When 3"ou were there before, some 3"Oung people were 
invited ; and then j^ou went for a walk, and when you came 
back it was ten o’clock. Ha, ha, ha ! That ten o’clock 
rule is too funny : it will rule 3’ou out, while W^ilmot will 
remain. Do yon think that is enforced against him?” 

Wajme, though the sweetest and most pleasant-tem- 
pered 3'oung man in the world, was quite enraged. He 
could have shaken the woman from his arm, and cast her 
into the river. It occurred to him that she was more 
likely to be the ally of Laura Barber than of the winsome 
Portia ; though he was greatly disturbed about her, and he 
determined to put a stop to this gossip. “ Miss Bronson, 
3^ou obviously have a purpose in telling me this stuff. If 
an opportunity has really been made to give 3^ou the chance, 
which I do not believe so far as Miss Ross is concerned, 
you have used it industriously. I refuse to think illy of 
her. Your powers of conversation are considerable. I 


THE COUESE OF TEIJE LOVE. 


65 


would greatly prefer to hear you on some less interesting 
subject/’ This he said in enforced good temper. 

“You will be quite at liberty to report me to Miss 
Eoss.” 

“Pardon me, Miss Bronson. If you had the slightest 
conception of what makes up a gentleman, you would 
know that is impossible.” 

“Indeed, Mr. Wayne, I have seen gentlemen before. 
They are usually less rude.” 

“Our standards differ. Miss Bronson. We wiU not 
discuss them.” 

“ Suppose Miss Ross should inquire of you what passed 
between us? ” she asked, after deliberation with herself. 

“ She will not.” 

“If she should?” 

“ She will be left wholly to your report. Miss Bronson.” 

They went on in silence for some time, the young man 
angrily determining not to say another word, except to 
answer questions ; nor did he care what her impression of 
his manner might be. He was certain of her purpose. 
She was an enemy not entitled to the rules of honorable 
warfare even. 

“Mr. Wayne, were aU your brothers like yourself, — 
lady-ldllers ? ” she asked, with insufferable coolness. 

“ I am not aware that any of us have ever enjoyed the 
luxury of that pastime,” he answered, a little with the 
manner of a man who would find present pleasure in a 
performance of that kind, casting his eyes toward the 
river, as if calculating the facilities. 

The lady had a purpose. 

“ I have been told that your elder brother quite broke 
the heart of a young lady, the present Mrs. John Ross,” 
she said. 

“ The story was, that the debonair John Ross, jun., sup- 


66 


TIIE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


planted that unfortunate young man, and bore the young 
lady away from him. When I last saw her she seemed in 
quite robust health,” was his reply. 

A turn of the river carried the road up its high bank, 
and commanded a view of RossviLle. 

There the lady came to a stand-still, seemingty quite 
refreshed, tossed back the cloud from her face, and looked 
about, serene and unruffled. 

“ Mr. Wayne, what time is it? ” 

“ Miss Bronson, I am not the possessor of a watch. I 
should think it was about ’ ’ — 

“ Spare me, in your present mood, Mr. Wayne. You 
were about to say twelve or thirteen o’clock,” laughing. 

“You are a lady of discernment. Miss Bronson,” 
gravely. 

She looked leisurely over the fine moonlit landscape. 
“ How lovely it is ! ” she exclaimed, to which he offered 
no response. He was a very young man, and only a 
man. “ You wished me to change the subject, Mr. 
Wayne. What do j'ou think of the moon? ” 

“ She seems quite reflective to-night,” drjdy. 

“If she sees us, what do 3^ou suppose she thinks of 
us? ” 

“ That one of us is a fool, and the other very near one.” 

This was spoken in the way of a man who was uttering 
a commonplace, which no one would question, and in 
which no one felt the least interest. 

“ The moon depresses j^ou, Mr. Wajme : I fear you are 
no true lover,” very brightly. “Let me try the stars: 
wfflat do 3"ou think of them ? ’ ’ 

“ The}’' are a devil of a ways off, with most things good 
to-night,” in the same uninterested manner. 

The lady started from him — “Mr. Wayne, apologize 
instantly ! ” with spirit. 


THE COUESE OF TEUE LOVE. 


6T 


“ Certainly ; to whom? 

“ Whom? He you named is always near you.’’ 

“ At my elbow,” coldly. 

‘ ‘ Leave me ! ’ ’ 

“ With pleasure,” stepping from her. 

“What do you mean by speaking in this way, Mr. 
Wayne? ” 

“ To agree with a lady — as is my dutj^” 

“ Suppose I should say that you were the rudest man I 
had ever met? ” 

“I should certainly assent to the justice of the re- 
mark.” 

The lady laughed. “ Give me your arm, Mr. Wayne.” 

“With pleasure — not so great as that with which I 
heard j^our last command, but with pleasure. Miss Bron- 
son,” with fine discrimination, tendering his arm ceremoni- 
ously, with his hat in his hand. 

“You can be the most uncomplimentary gentleman I 
ever met,” she said, receiving it. 

“ Yet candor itself, you will admit. Miss Bronson,” 

The lady turned, as if to walk down the hill again. 

“Do we return to Stewart’s? My orders from Miss 
Ross were to attend you to Rossville, Miss Bronson.” 

The lady looked each wa}^, and seemed a little un- 
decided. 

“ I am quite under your direction,” she said. “ I am 
a little confused, I believe : I was to take you away from 
the party,” with a laugh. She drew a watch from the 
folds of her dress, and consulted it. “After ten,” she 
said. 

“ Is that all? ” was the surprised response of the gen- 
tleman. 

“That will do very well,” she said naively, with a 
little laugh. 


68 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


“And very well done, though not done quickly,*’ was 
his comment. 

“I fully understand your feelings, Mr. Wayne, and I 
quite s}Tnpathize with them, I assure you.” 

“ And I have tried to leave you in no doubt of my ap- 
preciation of your motives and conduct. Miss Bronson.” 

Little more was said between them ; and a few minutes 
later they parted, seemingly on the pleasantest terms, at 
the door of Mrs. Barber. 

A lady was in waiting for Miss Bronson. So much 
was discovered by the quick ej-es of Wa3me, who turned 
awaj^ to find the watchful Warren, who had cared for Dol- 
phin. By the stable-lantern Charles wrote the note which 
Warren delivered to the carriage-driver, who was about to 
start for Stewart’s. Mounting Godolphin, the j^outh gave 
him the rein ; and at the forks of the road he turned to- 
ward Charter, full of disturbing reflections, doubt, and 
anger. 


GODOLPHm AS UMPIRE. 


69 


CHAPTER Vin. 

GODOLPHIN AS UMPIRE. 

On the following Sunday the elements were in conspir- 
acy against 3^oung Wajme. He was at his mother’s. At 
about three an awful storm of wind and rain came, and 
raged till nine o’clock. Dolphin was saddled in his stall, 
and Charles was carefully housed' in the parlor. At about 
five, with a huge overcoat and umbrella, he mounted, and 
attempted to face the storm. The strong wind turned his 
umbrella, and blew the covering from the frame ; and 
though he was not a hundred yards from the house, his 
clothes were saturated ere he gained cover. There was no 
help for it. Nothing but pictures of the winsome Portia in 
the presence of Wilmot ; the indomitable Miss Bronson, 
whom he could easily hate, and whom he was anxious to 
meet before Miss Ross, with Wilmot and Mrs. Barber as 
witnesses. He felt that he should acquit himself well ; 
and he was certain that he had been fals'ely reported, — 
how falsely he could not imagine. He had many causes 
for anxiety. The rain ceased about nine, and he mounted 
and rode toward Rossville, three miles away. The roads 
were badly washed and the night dark. He set out fully 
intending to call, and excuse himself as he might. As he 
went forward his spuits evaporated, and he was depressed 
and in doubt when he reached the road that would take 
him to his mistress. The hour was unseasonable, how 
much so cannot now be appreciated. In his uncertainty 
the brilliant idea struck him to leave the matter to Dol- 


70 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


phin, who had been much at Rossville, where he was a 
favorite, and well cared for. There was no doubt what 
his decision would be. Charles held him to a walk, and 
then laid the reins on his withers, leaving his fortune 
wholly to him. Without hesitation the mischievous or 
wise brute turned to the more remote Charter. What turn 
this little tale would have taken, if any, had he turned 
toward Rossville, will not be known. The youth rode 
slowly on, feeling that Providence and Dolphin also were 
against him. 

Three days later, the first leisure he could command, he 
walked along the one street of Rossville. He met Warren 
b}^ the bridge, went with him to Marks’s, where he re- 
mained a few minutes, when he proceeded directly to the 
Barber’s, rang the bell, was permitted to wait a good while, 
when Portia, sweet and cool, walked into the parlor. She 
received him pleasantly, and threw him a little off his 
mental balance by withholding her hand. But a few 
words were spoken when — 

“Miss Ross, you ma}^ have observed that I was not 
here on Sunday evening.” 

She believed he was not. There were Mr. Wilmot and 
Miss Bronson and one or two others. The evening was 
pleasant, very. 

“ I am charmed. But I am a little embarrassed how to 
shape my excuse,” he said ingenuously. “ And while ” — 

‘ ‘ Perhaps you had better call on Laura. I will gladly 
help you with her,” she said cooll}^ and with a little irony. 

“As you please. Till she comes permit me — unless 
you were too much absorbed, 3^ou may remember that 
there was an awful tempest of wind and rain, from mid- 
afternoon till late in the evening, of the day mentioned.” 

She did not remember. 

“Well?” 


GODOLPHm AS UMPIRE. 


71 


Then in a picturesque way, but in the third person, he 
described his effort and mishap of the afternoon, which was 
appreciated. In the same way he sketched the journey of 
the evening, the cheerless reflections of the traveller, and 
the final submission to the arbitrament of Dolphin, and his 
award. Portia was almost in convulsions of laughter 
through the whole. 

‘ ‘ O wise young master ! O wise Dolphin ! Wiser than 
his master, and still weak-minded for a horse. Some one 
must take them both in hand,” she said vivaciousl}^ 

“ I wish some one would.” 

“ They must never be trusted out together again. They 
had better part,”’ she added. 

“ They have. I walked here this morning.” 

“Dolphin felt the folly of it, and refused again,” she 
remarked. 

“Doubtless. Then in our excuse it maybe remem- 
bered that it was near the fatal bar of ten.” 

“ Indeed,” her manner changing, “ you sa}" this well. 
Who was it on Thursday evening, to a lady, spoke deri- 
sively of the ‘ little Puritan ’ and her notions of propriety, 
and boasted that her rules were not for him ? ’ ’ 

“ I do not know, I never heard of such a transaction.” 

“ Do you sa}^ you did not? ” 

“ Most emphatically. Call the lady.” 

“ Call the lady ! It was convenient for you to remain 
awaj^ till she had left.” 

“ Do 3^ou believe this of me? ” spiritedly. 

“ Of course, — I choose to.” 

“I _ shall not attempt to shake your faith in it,” 
stung almost be^^ond endurance. Mr. Marks and War- 
ren are the only persons I have seen in Rossville.” His 
color had receded, but his voice remained steady. 

Portia, without being excited, was certainly toned up, 


72 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


and her breath came quiveringly. Evidently the young man 
had no more that he felt like saying, and remained silent. 

“Mr. Wayne, I trust you had a charming walk the 
other evening,” ironically spoken. 

“ For which I am indebted to you,” in a dry, indiffer- 
ent manner. 

“You must have found the lady very interesting.” 

“ Doubtless. She was very much interested.” 

“You spoke playfully of murdering her.” 

“ I saw one capital place for drowning, on the way.” 

“ It was in your role of lady-killer, doubtless, you 
intended to act.” 

The young map’s lips curled, but remained mute. 

“ I believe you attributed to me the sending you away 
from Stewart’s the other night, purposely to avoid the 
embarrassment of your overpowering presence.” 

“ And you believe that? ” 

“ Hear me out, it is a labor to say it all. So com- 
pletely infatuated with you am I, that were you to remain, 
another, a rich but stupid suitor, would certainly dis- 
cover it.” 

The young man rose, took a step toward the now 
excited girl, and said, “ In your heart and soul, you 
know that is utterly, utterly false. You remember what 
I said to 3^ou four or five weeks ago. You know that 
was true. You know I have said no word, thought no 
thought, not inspired by the love I then declared to you.” 

The face of the young girl softened, and her eyes turned 
away. 

She resumed, — “You left Stewart’s about eight, and 
you reached here a little before eleven,” musingly; and 
then, looking up, “Mr. Wa^me, I am a woman, and am 
curious to know what was said between you and the lady 
I intrusted to your care, if you have time. I was foolish 


GODOLPHm AS UMPIRE. 


73 


enough to think that you undertook that with pleasure, for 
me ; that if you spoke of me it would not cause me to 
crimson with shame and indignation, and that j’ou might 
come back to me and let me thank you, even in Mr. Wil- 
mot’s presence.” 

The young man arose, approached her, and bent with 
one knee to the floor at her feet. She sprang from him 
with the word, “Never!” He stood an instant and 
walked away. “Miss Ross,” he said, in a hopeless sort 
of way, “you believe all the stuff that has been said to 
you, notwithstanding I have shown you my whole heart. 
You spurn me.” 

“ Your whole heart I Oh 1 I know j'Ou importuned me.” 

“ Importuned 1 ” 

“Importuned me into some recognition of what you 
called your love.” 

“You certainly will be free from further importunity.” 

“ Do you wish to say to me what you did say to Miss 
Bronson, Mr. Wayne?” she asked. 

“Not one word. I certainly hoped for a different 
reception. Nothing in word or thought of mine prepared 
me for this.” 

“ What did you expect? ” 

“ I hoped for one little word, one look or touch of the 
hand, to be remembered.” 

“ And 3^ou have not found it. You looked for the sign 
of a weakness, which existed only in your fancy, Mr. 
Wayne.” 

“It is something to have that dispelled, if it was only 
in my fancy,” he said coldly. “ I saw Warren this morn- 
ing : I did have it in my mind to say a word of him.” 

“ He has been a strong card, Mr. Wajme. You need 
not remind us of what we owe you on his account.” 

“ Pardon me. I doubtless have your permission to 


74 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


take my leave,” he said with dignit}^ and without anger. B 
‘ ‘ I have not utterty mistaken 3^011 ; and some time 3’ou , ■ 
ma}" doubt the statements that have been made to 3’ou, B 
however little regard j'ou ma^" have for me.” _ B 

“ I shall be gladder than 3^011 give me credit for, to find fl 
that I am mistaken,” she said with signs of emotion. B 
The 3’^oung man raised his hand as if she would place | 
hers in it. As she did not, he lifted it silently to his B 
lips, and walked awa3^ without another word. 

Portia was surprised at his going, and from a window 
saw him walk awa3". She was so accustomed to see him 1 
with his favorite Dolphin, almost as much a favorite of 4 
hers, that there was something in this unusual appearance ■: 
of his being solitar3" and walking that was a little touch- 
ing. She had not believed — not half believed — the state- > 
ments of Miss Bronson. She was prepared to disbelieve J 
them all. She felt safe in the love of the 3"oung man, ^ 
and believed he would set it all right. She thought he 
would come to her the next day after the party. He did 
not come even the Sunda3" evening, w^hen she was so 
certain he would. The story had been constantly dinned i 
in her ears till she was doubting and unhappy. When he -j 
came she said scarcely a word she had intended, and 5 
those not as she had planned. She had C00II3’ accused 
and asserted, and refused his word ; became angvy, and 5 
spoke scornfull3^ and he had ansvvered her proudly and ' 
— and as a man should. He had even knelt at her feet A 
like a knight, and would have plead his cause, and she , 
had refused to hear him. He had gone away silentl3" and ^ \ 
haughtil3' in anger ; but she had told him how glad she ^ 
would be to have it all set right, and he would come back 
and the3^ should make it up. She had meant to invite 
him there again, for of course he would explain it all. ^ 
What could have induced her to speak of poor Warren as ^ 


GODOLPHIN AS TJMPIBE. 


75 


she did? And he only wanted a word, a touch of her 
hand, even a little look to carry awa}^, and he had not 
received it. She even taunted him with that. And he 
had gone awa}^, on foot and alone ; and she went to her 
room and had a good cry. Poor girl ! She could not say 
a word to Laura. She finally was refreshed by her tears. 
Her sister came round, curious to know what had hap- 
pened, and said she supposed a lover’s quarrel, and she 
asked when Mr. Wayne would call. Portia would let her 
know in time. Laura had never shown so much interest 
in the affarn, and really seemed quite friendly, yet Portia 
did not feel like confiding in her. 

When Warren came home he wanted to know whether 
Charley had been there, and what had happened ; and 
Portia wanted to know what he had said ,to Warren, and 
he told her, and of his conversation with Marks, and that 
Wayne went in and shook hands with Mrs. Marks and all 
of them. 

“ That was when he first came into the village. Marks 
said he was going away. He has sold Godolphin.” 

“Sold Dolphin?” asked_ Portia. “Why, what has 
happened ?, ’ ’ 

“I don’t know. He said he had about given him 
away to Dave Stewart.” 

Then something had happened, sure enough. All this 
occurred before he came to her. So it was not in conse- 
quence of her quarrel with him. But then he had not 
told her of that. Well, how could he? Of course he 
would : that was partly what he came for, and to get 
some little, sweet token, that he would prize and carry 
away with him. He certainly would not go clear away 
without letting her see him again. He would let her 
know he was going, if he was. She went over it a good 
deal that night and the next morning. One comfort: 


76 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


Wilmot would not trouble her any more, nor would Miss 
Bronson. What could have been her motive? Was she 
in the interest of Wilmot? Did she make it all up? Who 
could have put every thing into her head ? She would go 
and see Anne Stewart the next morning. She owed her 
a party call, and that would be an excuse. Anne would 
scold her, and she deserved it, but she could tell her 
something. 


PORTIA’S PITRSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE. 


7T 


CHAPTER IX. 

0 

Portia’s pursuit op knowledge under difficulties. 

Anne received Portia just a bit coolly. Looked her 
over, and fancied she did not feel half bad enough, but 
knew her call had a purpose beyond the performance of 
social duty. She liked her very well, — was taking her 
quite into her capacious bosom. She would be wary with 
her. 

“You don’t deserve it,” she said, as she kissed her; 
but there was a wistful expression in the girl’s eyes that 
appealed touchingly to her, as she said in reply, — 

“ You know I have no friends, Anne,” in a little, mis- 
erable voice ; though she smiled, and her eyes were clear, 
and free from tears. 

“You ought to be congratulated, Portia, for your suc- 
cess in sending away your lover from my party,” she 
began. 

“ Have you forgiven me, Anne ? ” Portia asked in reply. 

“ Oh ! I had it out with you then. I told you you would 
be paid for it, though 3"ou don’t appear to care much. 
You really did not think of sending him clear away for 
good or bad, and all.” 

“He did not go wholly awa}^ though I did think he 
would come back to 'me that night. I saw him yester- 
day,” she said. 

“Yes, he came here,” replied Anne, thinking she 
would stand on the reserve, and answer questions to begin 
with. 


78 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS. 


‘‘Was he very angry? I — I did not mean to use him - 
ver}^, very badly.” 

“ He was not angry. He did not say very much, and 
laughed about it,” said Anne carelessly. 

“Laughed? He thought it good fun, I suppose;” 
hurt b}" this speech. 

“ Such fun as it would be to be murdered. He is one 
of those deep-natured men who laugh under torture.” 

“ What did he sa}^? ” greatly relieved with the idea of 
his suffering. 

“ Not much.” 

“ Any thing as to what Miss Bronson told him? ” 

“ He said she was a queer friend of yours. He refused 
to hear her, and then she must have told you, what she 
accused you of to him, as coming from him ; and he said 
3^011 believed her against him.” 

“ Did he sa}" more? ” 

“ No. Yes, he said that he had no place, not the least, 
in 3’our heart. Y"ou had never given him hardl3^ a bit of 
encouragement, and 3'ou never could have reall3" cared for 
him ; and that was the end of it.” 

“ And that was the end of it,” repeated Portia. “ Is 
he still here ? ’ ’ looking away. 

“ Mr. Stewart took him to the lalie last night,” was the 
answer. 

Portia looked at her for a moment, her color receding. 
“ Where has 'he gone? i’ 

“ I do not know. ” 

“ Anne, 3'ou do : you must know. Y'ou are joking.” 

“ I reall3’^ do not know.” 

“ Was it ver3’^ sudden, his going? ” 

- “ Finalh" it w^as.” 

“ And that was the end of it ! Did he say more about 
that? ” eagerl3'. 


Portia’s pursuit of eznowledge. 


79 


“ He said that Rossville would say you had rejected 
him, as Sarah WaiTen rejected his brother Forrester, or 
perhaps that Wilmot had set him aside, as Forrester had 
been by 3'our brother. ’ ’ 

“ Oh! I don’t care about that. His final going was 
sudden ? ’ ’ 

“Yes. You see, the next day after our party he had to 
be in Hudson to meet the medical society at ten in the. 
forenoon.” 

“ He never told me that.” 

“Why should he? Besides, you sent him off. He 
would have given the world to have seen j’ou that night. 
He thought you cared for him then. He was dissatisfied 
with his examination at Hudson.” 

“Did he fail? ” starting as she spoke. 

“ Fail? Of course not. He said it was a mere sham, 
that the doctors didn’t know any thing ; and he deter- 
mined to go to Philadelphia, and graduate from the medi- 
cal college. He did not intend to go before Monday ; but 
Lord! v/hen he came from 3^011, — well, 3*011 know what 
3*ou said to him, — he insisted that David should go with 
him last night.” 

After a moment’s silence, “And so he has gone to 
Philadelphia ? ’ ’ she asked. 

“ No ; ” and after a pause, “ I don’t know. You know, 
the onl3^ thing he had in the world was Dolphin. Well, 
he wanted Stewart should advance him one hundred and 
fift3" dollars on him. He had been offered two hundred 
and fift3' dollars for him. He did not want to sell him. 
YPell, David put him off till the3* got to the lake ; and then 
he — if he is my husband — he got the horse for seventy- 
five dollars, and Charles has a year to redeem him in.” 
And then the hot, indignant tears rushed into her eyes, 
over which she pressed her hands for a full minute. “ Oh ! 


80 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


he had no friend in the world who would aid without rob- 
bing him. Of course, a young man can’t go to college on 
seventy-five dollars, with barety one decent suit of clothes ; 
and of course he won’t be able to redeem his horse,” put- 
ting her hands over her eyes again. 

“ Oh, it is too bad ! ” cried the moved Portia, in real 
anguish. 

In her indignation Anne turned upon her. “Yes, 
when a Wayne’s property is sacrificed, none but a Ross 
should profit by it.” 

‘ ‘ What do you mean ? ’ ’ asked Portia : “ is this my fault? 
Why should a Ross profit when a Wayne loses his proper- 
ty?” with spirit. 

Anne was too much disturbed to be kind, or even pru- 
dent. 

“Did you never hear of the purchase of the Wayne 
lands by 3^our father, Portia? ” she asked. 

“ Never : what was it? ” with the color receding. 

“Then, ask Mrs. Barber or Mrs. Gray. They’U tell 
-you.” 

But Portia would not be put off; and Anne told the 
story as it had been preserved in her famil3’, friends of the 
Wa^mes, and also the story of Portia’s brother John 
wooing Forrester’s girl-love. Portia was greatl}^ excited 
over the tale, and quite overcome when she was informed 
that her own large and beautiful farm, set off from her 
father’s property- to her, was a part of the Wa3me domain, 
purchased for less than a dollar an acre. She could not con- 
ceal her distress. She now, for the first time, understood 
the enmit3^ and the before, to her, preposterous course of 
her sisters toward Charles Wa3me. She shuddered at 
the thought that the wretched condition of her father, the 
early all but ruin of Warren, were judgments for this ill- 
doing ; while the assurance that she herself had so large a 


Portia’s pursuit of knowledge. 


81 


share of the ill-gained spoil quite crushed her. There 
had, as Anne said, been some proceedings in the courts 
to set aside the sale ; but, although it failed, the general 
impression was strongly adverse to the Rosses. As Anne 
recovered her own pose, she said what she might to soften 
the effect of her communication, and greatly deplored hav- 
ing made it. 

As they returned to the more interesting subject of 
Charles, Portia said, “ Of course he knew all this, and 
yet he came to me, — me of all the young girls in the 
world ! If I had only known ! Oh, if I had known ! ” 

“It is a perfect romance,” said Anne, “or will be, 
maybe, if he comes back,” looking eagei’iy at her friend. 

“ Where do you suppose he has gone? ” asked Portia. 

“ Stewart thinks he went to his brother Forrester’s, in 
Michigan, who may be able to help him. Go and ask 
your sister Sarah to tell you all of herself and Forrester, 
if you care to know. Charles thought she was a little 
interested in his affair with you.” 

“She was very kind to him,” said Portia, “and I 
would greatl}^ like to know all about it. Her life has been 
sad and loveless, as we have all known.” 

Then they talked over the various things in connection 
with the main subject, had a lunch, and Portia grew more 
cheerful. As she was about to leave on her return, a man 
led Dolphin from the stable, and turned him loose in a 
small field near the house, where he was seen b}'- the ladies. 
Portia, who knew him well, and was acquainted with his 
manners and training, wanted to go into the field where 
he was. She thought he would know and come to her. 

“Do,” said Anne vivaciously ; “and, if he comes up 
to 3’ou, it shall be a sign that his master will return to 
you, and you shall give him something as a sign,” with a 
look. 


82 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


“ Oh ! I am most afraid to make that a test,” blushing. 

She hesitated ; and then, taking half a dozen lumps of 
sugar and two or three small cakes from the lunch-table, 
she started to go. 

“That is hardl}’’ fair,” said Anne. “I’ve heard that 
he is fond of sugar. You will tempt him with it.” 

“No, I will onty reward him,” said the girl, placing 
her dainties in a pocket. 

On gaining the enclosure she stopped near the entrance. 
The beautiful animal lifted his head, regarded her a mo- 
ment, and then walked toward her. As' he drew near, he 
paused, looked again, walked partly around her, when 
she spoke to him. “Dolphin, you know, me, don’t 3^011? 
Come to me. Dolphin, 3’ou beautiful fellow. Dolphin, 
Dolphin ! ” extending her empt}^ hand, “ 3'ou will come to 
me? You know me, 3^ou like me ; don’t 3'ou, Dolphin? ’’ 
He came up, held out his nose, took a step, and permitted 
her to caress his head and neck, smelt about as if he 
expected something. 

She produced the cakes ; and he took them one after the 
other from her hand, and then seemed to look for some- 
thing else. She proffered a bit of the sugar, which he took 
from her fingers ver}^ daintil3^, and so on, each one till they 
were exhausted, and then he gave himself up to her caresses 
as if he appreciated them. He lowered his head, and per- 
mitted her to pass an arm about it, and press it to her 
bosom ; she placed her lips on his forehead, to3’ed with his 
splendid mane, and patted and talked to him. Anne, who 
had not ventured inside the enclosure, was hardl3" within 
hearing of her ghl talli. “ And 3^ou like me, and 3’ou love 
3'our master a great deal more? Wh}' didn’t 3'ou bring 
him to me, 3’ou bad Dolphin? You will next time, won’t 
3'ou? You would then, if 3^011 had known, wouldn’t 3'ou? 
Did he sell 3"Ou? Did he have to sell 3^ou? Wh3^ didn’t 


Portia’s pursuit of knowledge. ’ 83 

3’ou come to me?” and more-. “And now I must go. 
Good-b}'. Good-b3^” The horse had been taught to 
nod his head at these^ words. “ Good-by, Dolphin. 
Now I must go. There,” with another kiss. As she 
turned, and stepped upon the stile, he came and placed 
himself as if for her to mount, and seemed desirous of 
prolonging her stay. 

“You have won,” said the pleased and admiring Anne. 
“You gave him cakes and sugar and kisses. When 
Charles comes, what will he receive, I wonder? ” 

“ Charles is a man,” said the blushing girl. 

“I wish I knew what you said to Dolphin,” said Anne. 
“ Do 3'ou? ” with color. 

“ I do believe he can trust 3^ou,” said Anne. 

“ Do 3'ou?” was her repl3" to this also, and she went 
away, C03" and sh3^ She was chaiy of sa3dng, or admitting 
to another, what she had refused to her lover. She was 
conscientious, and thought she ought not to, till he had 
persuaded it from her lips, if he ever should. 

Anne accompanied her part of the way, and promised 
to go and see her in a day or two. 


84 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS. 


CHAPTER X. 

Sarah’s story. 

As the young girl was left to herself, all the sad old 
things she had just heard of came hack to her. Old as 
they were, and unknown to the newer generation, and for- 
gotten by the older, they rested upon her with quite the 
effect of recent occurrences, — so helpless of righting if 
real wrong had been done, so almost hopeless of setting - 
herself right in the regards of her lover, who had this old 
grievance to add to what she was sorely pained to think 
was a very grave cause for offence given by her. But then 
when he got away, he must see and feel that — and she 
stopped there. 

She went directly to her brother John’s house, found 
Sarah alone, who received her with more than the kindness 
which had for many months marked her conduct toward 
her. To her it was easy to see that the poor girl was un- 
happy. She kissed her tenderly, sa^dng, “Tell me all 
about it ; ” and, seating herself on an ottoman at her sister’s 
feet, she told her quite all now known to the reader, and 
gave her a clearer insight into her heart and feelings than 
is granted by these pages. From Sarah she received a full 
confirmation of the early history of the affairs between the 
Rosses and Wa3mes, dwelling as the narrator did on what- 
ever tended to soften the conduct of Ross, sen., which, 
after all, was little relieved save by the intervening j^ears. 

And then she told her own story. “ My husband knew 
it all, ere I consented to accept him. He has done what 
he might to prevent my forgetting it,” she said. 


saeah’s story. 


85 


“We all know him,” said Portia, “but have only 
guessed at the life j^ou have been obliged to live.” 

“Of that I have not a word to say. We knew the 
Waynes in our old home. We lived but a mile from them 
here. Forrester was about three years older than mj^- 
self.” 

“Describe him, Sarah.” 

“ He was very much like Charles in person. Not quite 
as tall, dark, while Charles is light, with a little stoop in 
the shoulders ; handsomer in the face.” 

“ Handsomer? ” 

“As dark in a man is more manly than fair, Portia. 
He was well read, with a quick, strong mind, not so pol- 
ished, so gay, and so brilliant as Charles, and not so popu- 
lar. He did not talk much, was thoughtful, brave hearted, 
and tender, but proud and sensitive — not jealous, but un- 
yielding and unforgiving. I think Charles has greatly the 
advantage in these qualities.” 

“ Well, we were much together, and found our greatest 
pleasure in each other’s company. He devoted himself 
wholly to me, and I wished for no other. He had a hard, 
toilsome, thoughtful life, and the Waynes were poor^ but 
alwaj's took care of themselves. Mrs. Wayne is a won- 
derful woman.” 

“ Warren likes her very much,” said Portia. 

“Everybody does: 3^1 will, when j^ou come to know 
her, Portia. We lived along this wa^^ several 3^ears. 
Their fortunes mended. He was twenty-five, and I nearly 
twenty-two. Nothing had ever been said between us ; 
perhaps it was unnecessary^ ” 

“ Did he never tell you that he loved ,you? ” 

“Never. I knew he did. He knew I loved him.” 

“ That seems strange,” said Portia. 

“ He was not lil^e Charles, was he ? It would have been 


86 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


a great deal better had he been. But, had nothing hap- 
pened, it would have gone on to a happy marriage. Your 
brother came back from Massachusetts a handsome, well- 
dressed, dashing man ; drove a st^dish horse and carriage. 
I knew him quite well before he went East. He found 
me one day at the post-office, and carried me home. I 
thought nothing of it ; could not well have refused. I 
perhaps did not then remember the feud between the two 
families, and the Wa3mes were not people to lay up things. 
What I did not know, there was a personal quarrel between 
the young men of an old date. I told Forrester of my 
riding home with John. I saw it greatly incensed him, 
though he said little. He was ver^’’ angiy. I was sur- 
prised and hurt. I had ridden with others, and he seemed 
pleased. He expected I would receive ordinary civilities 
from others. I felt grieved at his unreasonable anger. 
Well, not long after, John came one Sunday" and found me 
at Mr. White’s — Jerry White’s, m}^ brother-in-law, 5’ou 
know. From there he walked home with me, and. we 
found Forrester there. John went awaj", and Fori*ester re- 
mained. We then had some words. Forrester exhibited 
no temper ; but he spoke decidedly of John, and as I 
thought unjustly, and I told him so. He said very little 
more, and went away a little under a cloud. As he never 
talked of love to me, or ever kissed me, I could saj" little. 
I could do nothing but be cheerful and kind. The next 
da}’ I went to White’s, and talked the whole matter over. 
My mother was then dead, and Jerry was a warm friend 
of Forrester’s ; and I had great trust in his judgment and 
that of my sister. They said that -Our affair was running 
on quite too long in its present shape. Tliey thought we 
ought to be married — at least formally engaged. 

‘ ‘ Of course they had no more idea or wish than had I 
of breaking with Mr. Wayne. Everybody 'was pleased 


saeah’s story. 


87 


with him. I had decided to avoid John. They thought 
that it would be best to treat him as I did all other j’oung 
men, and at the next complaint on Forrester’s part, 
to say to him that I did not know what he wished or 
expected of me ; that it was due to me and my friends 
that something be said. I do not recall it exactly. It 
did not seem possible for me to say any thing ; I did not 
want to ; I preferred to avoid John and live on ; I was 
happy, and felt secure ; they over-persuaded me. Well, in 
a day or two John di’ove round and asked me to ride with 
him, and I had to decide betvreen their plan and m^^ own. 
I went, and had as wretched a ride as could be. Spite of 
what I could with delicac}^ sa}*, he drove me around past 
the Wa3me house, and Forrester saw us. He made us a 
very polite bow, and we drove round home. I went then 
straight to White’s, and talked the w^hole case over again. 
I was reall}^ frightened, sick, and agitated. An evening 
or two later, Forrester came over to see me : his manner 
was gentle and not unkind, and he looked as if he were ill. 
Oh ! if I could have gone and knelt Jo him, and asked him 
to pardon me, for I felt stricken and guilty. He said he 
presumed that I did not ride round b}" his home for the 
purpose of having him see me, but that it was the wish of 
Mr. Ross to exhibit me to him. 

“It was all true, but it roused my spirit. I replied 
that I knew of no reason wh}^ I should avoid riding on 
that road. He looked up a little surprised, but said that 
he had told me what he thought of Mr. Ross ; that it 
]3ained him to have me receive attentions from him ; that 
I had disregarded his wish, and that I, of course, must 
choose between them. I made the worst answer possible, 
I have no doubt. I was cool and strong. I was stung 
by his idea of my being exhibited. I asked him if he 
felt he had any claims on me. I would have added some- 


88 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


thing more. The words sounded strangety in my own 
ears, and I hesitated a moment. Ke said he had not 
the slightest claim in the world on me ; and if he had, 
on such a question he would withdraw it, and leave me 
free to act as I would. This was spoken very firmly. 
I was a good deal disconcerted. I was not prepared 
for a renunciation, or its ofi*er. ‘I have not known,’ I 
said, ‘just what you wished of me, or what 3’ou thought 
of our relations.’ — ‘There have been no formal words 
ever spoken between us,’ he said: ‘I never thought it 
necessary. I supposed it was understood. I presume I 
have, like some other men, in my vanity, taken things for 
granted when I ought not to. I see now that it all goes 
for nothing.’ — ‘ How for nothing? ’ I asked. ‘ We have 
misunderstood each other all the time,’ he added, ‘ or we 
have had no understanding at all ; your conduct shows 
that. ’ He said he could not rival Mr. Ross for m3" favor. 
He had neither horses, carriages, fine clothes, wealth, nor 
jewels, as I well knew. He certainl3" would not be in the 
way of Mr. Ross’s approach to me. It seemed that he 
could not be, if he -wished. He had wished me not to 
receive his attentions, and I did receive them : I should 
not have let him go from me with those words. He said 
he had taken things for granted. Of course I knew what 
thing that was. I knew he loved me through ever}^ fibre 
of his strong, repressed nature. I could have relied fully 
on it. I could have taken his hand, and asked him to tell 
me all that was really in his heart ; or I could have told 
him I had chosen long before. But his words about 
wealth were bitterly unkind, and I let him go without 
telling him how unjustly he estimated me.” 

“You surel3" saw him again?” said the pale, eager 
listener. 

“Once.” 


saeah’s stoey. 


89 


“ Only once? Oh ! ’’ expressive of anguish. 

“ Only once. I — I’’ — then a pause; “I will tell 
you of that. About midway between our house and 
White’s was then a schoolhouse, where our Mr. Sessions 
used to preach every fortnight. Forrester always came 
to the meeting, and always went home with me. He 
would step out a httle west from the door, and stand 
apart. I would start forward to go home, when he would 
join me. He then remained to tea, and spent the evening 
with me. Well, the next Sunday he was there in the after- 
noon. Who else should come but your brother John? I 
was frightened with a sense of coming evil. I would have 
gone out and gone home, had I felt strong enough. When 
the service was over, I arose, weak and confused, and 
clung close to my sister. I saw Forrester awaiting me. 
I looked helplessly toward him. Why could he not have 
come to me ? I should have fallen by the way, had I 
started toward him. I clung to my sister’s arm, and was 
canied off toward her house. I never have seen Fon’es- 
ter Wayne since.” 

“O Sarah, Sarah! don’t say that; don’t say that; 
surely they went and brought him to you? You had 
friends who loved him? While” — She could not 
finish the sentence. 

“ Your brother joined us, and walked along with us. 
He walked into the house uninvited. I rushed to an 
inner room. He asked to see me, and I refused. After 
he left, my brother and sister went home with me. Of 
course Forrester was not there. A few days later Jerry 
White went to see him. I would have gone to him 
myself, had they permitted me. ■ Why I did not has 
always been a mystery to me. White found him almost 
ill, and very wretched ; explained to him how it arose ; 
that I was agitated, heart-sick, and really unable to join 


90 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


him at the church. He said, in substance, it was all very 
well. I had m3'self questioned his claims upon me ; he 
had told me to choose between John and himself; that he 
awaited me at the usual place, — I turned awa^^ from him, 
and John wall\;ed off b^" my side. All this in the face of 
a hundred people. Had I asked my sister or brother to 
have gone home with me or to him, they would have done 
it. The thing was done, and that was the end of it ; and 
it was. Weak and sick, I wrote him a letter, telling him 
m3’ heart and sorrow, asking nothing ; and m3’ own father 
carried it to his mother’s house. He had left, — gone no 
one then knew where, and it was brought back to me.” 

Portia had slidden from her seat to the floor, where, 
kneeling with her arm about her sister’s waist, her wide 
e3’es on the pale, drawn face, she listened to the last sen- 
tences with convulsed bosom. 

“ O God ! ” she cried. “ Such things do happen, and 
there is no help for them nor for us ; ” and she laid her 
head in her sister’s lap, and gave wa3’ to sobs of anguish. 

Sarah, b3’ this recall of these buried incidents of her 
heart histoiy, though disturbed to the depths of her 
strong, womanl3’ nature, bent soothingly over the sorel3^ 
agitated maiden. “I should not have told 3’ou this: it 
only increases 3’our doubt and unhappiness. You have 
not seemed to choose against Charles.” 

“ Oh ! I refused him my love ; denied it to him ; scorned 
him when he knelt to me ! ” she cried, sobbing. 

“ He is tenderer than his brother; and 3’ou don’t ask 
me what became of Forrester?” said Sarah, wishing to 
recall her attention. 

“ No, I dare not. He sought another ” — 

“No. He was more faithful than I have seemed — he 
was never married,” she said in a low, calm voice. 

“ Oh, I am so glad ! ” without a thought of Sarah at 
the instant. 


Sarah’s story. 


91 


“No: though his life has been solitary, he is a man 
widety known and loved ; a man has resources. He did 
not return ; and two 5^ears after, — well, I suppose White 
and my sister may have encouraged 3^our brother, — a year 
later still and we were married.” 

From her brother’s the stricken girl in the twilight 
went to her mother’s grave in the little burying-ground, 
where, lajdng her forehead on the grassy mound, she 
gave wa}" in the abandonment of a motherless girl’s grief. 
As she grew calm, from that altar she lifted her heart 
upward through the calm stars to the source of all light. 
Then she stole back to her home. 

What Charles predicted came true. On its being known 
that he had gone awa}^, on Mrs. Barber’s authority, it was 
currently reported that Portia had rejected him, and many 
things were made to wear an air of confirmation. So san- 
guine was Mrs. Barber that the way was open to her favor- 
ite, that he again returned. Portia saw him but once, and 
then took refuge with Sarah, whose husband was absent, 
until Wilmot left the village. 

It was said that John Boss, sen., expressed himself as 
surprised at his daughter’s rejection of Charles, and 
decidedly disapproved of it ; but he was rarely sober, and 
when sober showed the marks of decay. 


92 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


CHAPTER XI. 

EXPIATION. 

Winter came and passed ; and the spring brought no 
word of the absent medical student, except a rumor that 
he was at Philadelphia. His friends, if they heard from 
him, were reticent. 

The summer came with a new affliction of a peculiar 
form to the Barbers. Warren had gone steadily on during 
the winter and spring. Portia became more" to him. 
Marks had somewhat supplied the place of Wayne as a 
friend and mentor, though no one would ever rival him 
in the boy’s love. Sometimes he went up to see Godol- 
phin, who proved too spirited for Stewart’s personal use. 
His mother displayed the same manner toward him as 
during the months of Wayne’s presence, doing what she 
might for his person and comfort ; while his father made, 
for him, a considerable effort to win his regard, and even 
talked of pm’chasing an interest in the flourishing business 
of Marks & Co. for him. In Ma^' he was stricken with 
a violent fever, complicated with unknown cerebral diffi- 
culties, attended with delirium. He was taken at Marks’s, 
and carried home. When his mother went into the room, 
and found him flushed with fever, and calling the name 
of Charles Wa3me, she accepted it as a visitation of God 
upon herself for her sin toward that 3’oung man, — a sin to 
be expiated, not repented of. The blow smote the rock 
of her hard, strong nature, and the flood of a mother’s 
tenderness flowed out to her stricken child as never before. 


EXPIATION. 


93 


To Portia, to her husband, and the members of her 
family, she was a revelation, but remained still a m3^stery. 
The nearest ph^^sician was called, and Dr. Grant and 
another yet more remote and famous were sent for ; and 
what might be was done. The woman changed in other 
wa3"s. The labor of expiation was vigorous^ entered 
upon. She spent hours in intense prayer, — asked God 
to punish her in an}^ other wa}^ ; take property, life, all, 
only spare this child. She sought the praj^ers of her 
church and of the individual members ; fasted ; proud 
and fond of fine clothes, and still vain of her beauty, she 
an*a3'ed herself in the coarsest and least attractive gar- 
ments, and did what she might to mar her face and form ; 
performed the most menial and offensive drudgery of the 
household. Her church and education ofiered few facili- 
ties for penance and mortification, but such as were 
within her reach she availed herself of vigorous^. The 
fever was subdued, the cerebral complication remained ; 
and as time wore on there was a threat of permanent 
mental debility, possible dementia. And so the case ran 
on through June and July into August ; and the bo3’, 
reduced to a skeleton, would lie for hours with querulous 
moanings, or petulant complainings, or perfectly silent, 
with his vacant eyes in unchanging gaze, from which 
every ray of intelligence was absent. He continued to 
call for Charles, and never for his mother. In his 
quiet times, in the earl3^ part of his illness, he was fond 
of hearing Portia tell of Charles and Dolphin. He wanted 
Charles sent for. If he would come, he could cure him. 
He knew that he was now a doctor, and he often asked 
Dr. Grant about him. The attending physicians were all 
baffled. They gave the case up. Unquestionably the boy 
would die, and at no distant day. Should he recover, 
he would be an idiot, much the more grievous affliction, 


94 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


His mother had reduced herself greatly. Thin and gaunt, 
hollow-eyed, hectic, and hopeless, there seemed nothing 
but to wear through God and his providence to the bitter, 
tragic end. 

One morning, one of the last of August, Charles 
Wa3me walked into the village, came down across from 
Stewart’s, walked past the Barbers’, and along up to 
Marks’s. Several saw him from a distance, and had a 
bow or a nod. No one had expected him ; but there he 
was, and never so much and so well himself. He did not 
look like a discarded lover, nor one who ran ^ away. 
Curiousl}^, the first person he met was old John Ross, and 
just as he reached Marks’s store, who seemed pleased to 
see him and almost immediately, as he generally did, 
the old man spoke of the old-time hunting incident in the 
big swamp. 

“ I alwa3^s s’posed I killed that deer,” he said ; “ and 
3^ou alwa3’s said I did, and there wa’n’t an3^body else by. 
They still talk to me and laugh about it,” he said quite 
seriousl3\ 

“Of course 3'ou killed it, uncle John. It was l3dng 
very still when 3"ou shot into it, but I think 3’ou short- 
ened its life a minute or two. You had the skin, 3"ou 
know, which is proof that 3^ou killed it,” said the 3"Oung 
man brightly. 

“Well, well: I am glad to hear 3’ou sa3" that, — glad 
to hear 3^011 sa3^ that, and glad to see 3*ou back again, 
Charles.” 

The 3^oung ph3"sician had heard of Warren’s illness ; 
had written and received a full histor3" of the case from 
Dr. Grant ; had made a stud3" of it under the best lights 
in Philadelphia, where he was engaged in a hospital, and 
he returned, on Warren’s account, a full month earlier 
than he had intended. He arrived the day before, stopped 


EXPIATION. 


95 


at Stewart’s, went home and spent the night with his 
mother, and went directly to Rossville the next morning. 
Of course Stewart was too prudent to return Dolphin to 
him on trust, nor did the 3^oung man ask it. He wanted 
to see Warren, and wondered how he would receive him. 
He was a little undecided how he should make his ap- 
proach to Warren, — a matter, under the circumstances, to 
he considered. He was saved all trouble about that. He 
had not been ten minutes at Marks’s when a hollow-e^^ed, 
worn, almost ghastl3-looking woman, came into the store, 
whom, after a moment, he recognized as Mrs. Barber. 
The 3'oung man’s compassion was excited for her at once. 
She seemed embarrassed, — he gave her his hand, and 
inquired about Warren. “He was no better — never 
coukbbe. He wanted to see Mr. Wa3me, and she came 
herself to ask him to go and see him..” Of course he 
would go, and immediately went with her. “I have no 
hope,” she said pitifully. “Whether he lives or dies, 
it is equally dreadful — unless help is to come from God 
through you. It is a judgment — God’s curse on me.” 
She uttered these words without bowing her head. 

“Don’t sa3" that — don’t say that! No one should 
judge God in that way. It sounds horrible to me that 
he should torture, destroy the life, mind, and soul of a 
child for any thing another could do.” 

“Don’t 3^ou believe he does sometimes?” asked the 
woman eagerly. 

“ Never, never! Do 3’^ou think a God infinite in wis- 
dom to invent, infinite in mercy, could find no decent way 
to lead another to repent, or to punish them, if they had 
sinned? Oh, I would not think that! This thing has 
come upon Warren for no such purpose as that. Never ! 
Never ! ” 

She looked at him a little startled, and wondered if it 
could be as he so confidently declared. 


96 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS. 


“ How do you suppose it was? ” she asked. 

“From natural causes wholly, Mrs. Barber. God’s 
hand is in no direct way in it. You may be assured of 
that.” 

“ Then — then he may be cured? ” 

“ He may be.” 

‘ ‘ And all this time you have been in a medical college ? ’ ’ 

“ I graduated early in March. I’ve been all the time 
engaged in a hospital, — ever since I reached Philadel- 
phia.” 

“And you think this would have come upon Warren 
if” — and she ceased suddenly. 

“ However it came, Mrs. Barber, it reached him wholly 
and entirely through natural causes. This is as certain 
as that the world stands. This is the sole hope of science 
and skill.” 

“What a deep, secret compassion there is in his eyes 
and voice!” was the woman’s mental comment. She 
wondered if he looked and spoke like Him of far-off 
Galilee. 

“Don’t you believe God ever punishes?” she asked, 
thinking of his reputed faith. 

“ Undoubtedly, but always in mercy. He leads by his 
goodness. He never drives by his wrath, never knows 
-anger. My mother taught me these things.” 

They gained the house. She led him in, conducted him 
to the door of the sick-room, toward which she pointed, 
and turned away to her own. The young man paused 
for an instant, to be certain of himself, pushed the door 
gently open and looked in. The sick boy lay mute and 
motionless, with his face a little from the light, his pre- 
ternaturally large eyes vacant, unwinking, and fixed. 
His frame, under the light covering, seemed large and 
long. Near him, silent and motionless, sat Portia, with 


EXPIATION. 


97 


her back to the door, intently observing the sick bo}". 
If she heard the visitor’s step, she supposed it to be that 
of an attendant, and gave it no heed. The young man 
entered, passed around the girl’s left, and paused a yard 
from her side. Then she turned with the suddenness of 
surprise, her color receded, and then came back in a flood. 
For an instant she could not rise ; and then with the one 
word “ Charles ! ” low spoken, she arose and held out her 
hand, with a pitiful expression of face, which she turned 
toward Warren. “ I am so glad you have come ! ” she 
said. 

“For Warren, of course,” was the 3"oung man’s men- 
tal comment. But he was not there as a lover. He had 
thought all that over. He scarcely referred to Portia in 
his interview with Anne Stewart ; and she told him noth- 
ing, save the report of his rejection. Now he took the 
proffered hand, and pressed it warmly. This was for War- 
ren, in front of whom, and for a better view, he led the 
tremulous Portia, still holding and veiy warml}^ pressing the 
delicious little hand, which ver}^ much lilted to be- pressed 
in his, so large, cool, and Arm, and made not the least 
effort to escape. 

As the}’ thus stood, a long, deeply-drawn breath by the 
young man was heard by the girl, who knew that was for 
Warren. Then he di’opped her hand quite abruptly, and 
passed around parti}’, and nearer to the seemingly uncon- 
scious boy. Over him he bent as if to catch the sound of 
his breathing. His hand passed down along the extended 
ann on the bed till his Anger rested on the languid pulse. 
Now he was fully in the gaze of the still agitated Portia, 
to whom he had never seemed so beautiful ; untouched by 
the sun from long housing, more slender, as she thought, 
more assured, cool, composed, manly, bringing strength 
and hope to the sick-ix)om. She was certain — she knew 


98 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


— that this coming was hot to her. She was more than 
suri^rised that her sister should herself go to him, and she 
felt, that, if help was to come, it would be through him. 
She was now certain that it had come. Surel}" he was 
one through whom God would gladly work. The 3'oung 
man bent over the boy and spoke his name softl}^, as Por- 
tia thought an angel might in the ear of the dead ; and she 
wondered that it was not heeded. Again and again — ■ 
“ 'VYarren, Warren ! ”• without a sign of conscious hearing 
b3" the sick bo}". As the 3^oung doctor stood looking at 
him, with a shade of disappointment on his face, as the 
girl thought — “Speak 3"our own name to him,” she 
said. 

‘ ‘ Charley W a3me ! ’ ’ An instant expression came to the 
eyes, which SI0WI3" turned, and as if listening. “ Charle3' 
Wa3'ne has come to 3^ou, Warren ! ” in a cheer3" voice. 

The e3^es came up, the face was turned, and the palid, 
shrunken lips repeated, “ Charley Wa3me ! ” faintl3". As 
his eyes met and recognized the face, a feeble effort was 
made to put his arms up around the 3"Oung man’s neck. 
Charles bowed, lifted the wasted form in his arms, and 
drew a hand and arm over his neck. 

‘ ‘ Is Dolphin here ? ’ ’ asked the boy feebly. 

“He is not far away,” answered the 3^oung man cheer- 

iiy- 

“ Portia is here? ” faintly. 

“Yes, Portia is here.” 

There was now a decided tremor in his voice, that Por- 
tia herself detected, and trembled as she did. 

“ I shall get well now,” in the scarcel3" heard voice, as 
he was laid back on the pillow which the girl, with tears 
dropping from her eyes, placed for his head. 

“My mother is here too now,” he muimured from 
the pillow. 


EXPIATION. 


99 


“ Thank God ! ” said the youth, tears springing to his 
own ej^es. 

And then the mother came to the door, and paused, 
arrested by the tableau. 


100 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


CHAPTER Xn. 

THE YOUNG M.D. 

The young M.D. became satisfied that the cerebral 
symptoms of the patient were due to much more remote 
causes than were indicated by the treatment, and permit- 
ted no more of the prescribed medicine to be given. All 
the day he sat watching and studying the case, caring for 
Warren wholly, bathing him, and preparing various appli- 
ances for his ease and comfort which his recent training 
and invention suggested. At night he took possession of 
the room, dispensed with all assistants, and made himself 
exclusive nurse. 

At the end of twenty-four hours he was confirmed as to 
the treatment, and then administered a medicine brought 
with him. 

In the afternoon of the next day Dr. Grant came, and 
a long consultation ensued. They did not agree ; but Dr. 
Grant regarded the case as utterly hopeless, and was too 
glad to be relieved of it, and young Wayne assumed the 
entire control of the patient. 

I could not give a history of the case. For the next 
week the young man was not an hour absent. He was 
physician, nurse, and devoted elder brother, fertile in ex- 
pedients, strong, full of pure young blood and life, with 
perfectly healthful nerves ; hopeful, self-reliant, he gave of 
his own spontaneous vitality. He became a tonic, an in- 
spiration. The laying-on of his cool, firm hands, imparted 
vigor. His presence in the house was felt as the spring- 


THE YOUNG M.D. 


101 


ing-up in it of a new, gentle, healthful magnetic force, 
bringing peace, courage, and hope. Laura Barber — hum- 
ble, awed, fearing — found a sort of fascination in his 
presence, ministering as much to her turbid, trembling 
spirit almost as to the languishing, quite exhausted springs 
of vitality of her son. His return, the prompt resort of 
Laura to him, his going at once with her, his constant 
presence, the whispers of tv hat he said and did, were the 
absorbing theme of Rossville gossip, — he the rejected 
lover of Portia. / 

Quite all the relatives, one after the other, even Mrs. 
Gra}", were at the house, and saw for then^selves, while all 
manner of rumors was afloat as to the effect of his treat- 
ment upon his patient. Portia was a constant attendant. 
While the young M.D. watched his charge, she took her 
note of the case from his face. Unchanged, 'a little anx- 
ious, it was on the eighth day she saw decided hope. She 
had detected gleams of it before ; now it appeared with a 
fixed character, — hope in which was clear expectation. 

“You feel certain now? ” she asked. 

“ Very hopeful, not certain,” was the answer. 

She could see the coming-back, the rekindling into a 
steady glow of the soul and intellect in the vacant, lustre- 
less eyes, where they were but fitful before ; more anima- 
tion and nerve in the voice, something of interest in things 
beyond the one or two upon which he had not quite lost 
all grasp. Wayne drew for him, in crayon, a likeness of 
Dolphin, with which he was really pleased, and he began 
again to listen to stories, and showed petulance at things 
which had not annoyed him for months. 

While the young physician watched his patient, watched 
in turn by Portia, both were in the watchful eyes of Laura 
Barber. It was necessary to her scheme of salvation that 
they become reconciled. To her they were little like lov- 


102 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


ers. She saw, as she thought, a deeply veiled devotion 
in Portia, in Wayne only the kindliness and comradeship 
of the chief toward a trusted assistant and companion. 
There was little reserve on his part, — no sign of pride or 
anger, — and she detected no satisfactory indications of 
continuing love. He was only the thoughtful, determined, 
alert physician, who had undertaken a desperate case, and 
staked all on his success. This thing between them had 
in her mind become a part of her care, and she was anx- 
ious and doubtful. 

One evening Portia entered the sick-room very quietly, 
as was her wont ; and, as she approached the couch where 
the patient and doctor were, she caught the murmur of 
their voices. 

“And 3'ou will take me with you?” asked Warren 
plaintively. 

“ Some time,” was the cheerful answer. 

“ And Dolphin too? ” 

“If we can manage it. Dolphin must go.” 

‘ ‘ And Portia ? ’ ’ asked the persistent boy. 

“Portia won’t want to go.” Rather sadly this was 
spoken. 

“Why?” 

“ Hush ! ” and she stoie away undiscovered. ^ 

And so they were planning theii' lives, and one thought 
she would not wish to share in them. On the' whole, she 
was a good deal depressed by it. He had taken her at her 
word, after all. 

So closely was the young man engaged for the first two 
weeks, that he did not go away as far as Stewart’s ; and on 
the tenth or eleventh day Anne, who had been there, came 
in, accompanied by Mrs. Wayne. Mrs. Wayne had never 
been in the house before, and her coming produced a sensa- 
tion. Tall, slender, with a sweet, soft, handsome face. 


THE YOUNG M.D. 


103 


and her old trim widow’s cap, she came in with her pleas- 
ant, graceful manner. Mrs. Barber met her at the door, 
and conducted her to the room where the 3’oung doctor and 
his patient were. Warren was quite bright, knew her, and 
showed pleasure at her coming. Of course, the call was 
for them. 

As they rose to go, Charles went a little in advance of 
his mother, followed by Mrs. Stewart. Mrs. Wa^me, ere 
she passed out, went to Portia, gave her her hand, and 
bending kissed the girl’s cheek with the air of benedic- 
tion. As such the child received it, and it shed over her 
heart and spirit a restful assurance of peace and blessed- 
ness. What occurred was not seen b}' the 3^oung man ; 
but the color in the cheeks and the light of the e^xs of the^ 
maiden showed him later that something unusual and very 
pleasant had happened to her. 

At the beginning of the third week of the young M.D.’s 
return, when he became quite certain of the recovery of 
his patient, and others began to share his hope, a thing 
occurred in the neighborhood which drew attention very 
widel}" to him. The Markses had been married for nearly 
three 3'ears, and the j'oung wife was called for the first 
time to meet the perils of maternity. Slight and frail, 
some apprehension more than usual had been felt b}- her 
physician and friends as to the result. Something more 
than his worst fears were likely to be realized. Another 
was called to his aid, and finally Dr. Grant was summoned. 
It was an abnormal case rarely arising, and beyond their 
united experience. It was decided that the child must be 
sacrificed. That was delayed in the complications of the 
case until it was supposed that both must perish. The 
mute outside world only knows that mystery and death 
impends, the details of which cannot be known, nor can 
the precious sufferer have the sympathy and sustaining 


104 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


presence, save of the initiated few. Mrs. Marks was a 
beautiful and gifted woman, quite idolized ; and the peril 
she was under cast a gloom over the village, and as far as 
heard of. Men and women went silent and sadly around, 
and young maidens had that . instinctive sympathy and 
dread which could appeal only to their sex in its fullest 
force. It was finally rumored that there was little hope, 
then that there was none ; and as an early September night 
set in, dark and rain}", it was said that the poor woman 
would not live to see the light of another day. 

When the morning of that day came with sunshine and 
bright sky, the joyful intelligence ran thi’ough the village 
that the child, a beautiful boy, was alive, with very hearty 
lungs, and the poor dear mother was in a most hopeful 
condition. There was all manner of rumors in circula- 
tion, yet all concurring that finally young Dr. Wayne had 
been called in, and that the result was entirely due to him ; 
and in a certain way he became a hero, more so, in the 
eyes and feelings of the dozen thoughtful matrons v/ho 
were present, than if he had borne the invalid mother and 
infant from a burning house or sinking ship.. It certainly 
was very pleasant and not ungrateful to him, the admira- 
tion and homage paid him in the coming days. Young 
maidens blushed as they met him, and showed a shy, half 
worship in his presence. They felt that he should not 
have been there, but were so glad that he was. Mrs. 
Gray was present at Marks’s ; and during the forenoon of 
that day she went to her sister’s, Mrs. Barber’s, full to 
fiooding with the affair. There the two sisters had a 
memorable conversation. 

“We were all there,” said the outspoken Mrs. Gray, ' 
“and we know all about it. It was just as I tell you. 
They had some high words, and when they came out Dr. 
Wayne took the case into his own hands. Those old-fogy 


THE YOUNG M.D. 


105 


doctors may say what they will. They were going to let 
them both die ; and they would have died, had it not been 
for him. Marks wanted him called two days before. 
That young man was sent here of- God, if a young man 
ever was. Oh, how blind we have all been ! blind and sin- 
ful, I fear, too,” she said with a sigh. “ Well, for me I 
give it all up,” she said resignedly. 

“ I gave it up the moment I knew he had come,” said 
Laura. ‘ ‘ I think he was sent to me of God. How 
strange, and he a Wayne !_ and I was so blind, and hard of 
heart, that I rejected him as the Jews did. I would hard- 
ly consent that Warren should be snatched from the burn- 
ing by him.” 

“And he is a Unitarian, if he’s any thing,” said Mrs. 
Gray. “ His mother is.” 

“And then Warren was smitten, and would have died, 
or lived a drivelling idiot ; and he came, and is saving him 
again. The child is certain to recover if God continues to 
bless,” said Laura. 

“Have you told them all — confessed all to them ?” 
asked Mrs. Gray. 

“No, I have not,” said Laura, distressed and dis- 
mayed. 

• “ Hadn’t you better now, and make it sure? Perhaps 
God is only permitting this thing to seem well, to try you ; 
and if he finds that you continue to harden your heart — 
you know what he did to the Egyptians.” 

“ I don’t harden my heart to him,” abjectly. 

“But you do not do your whole duty to' men.” 

“ How can I, just now? ” 

“Have you got Miss Bronson’s statement that she 
wrote at the time ? ” 

“ Yes, of course.” 

“Well?” 


106 


THE HOUSE' OF EOSS. 


“You see, sister Gray, I am waiting for something to 
happen between them, and then I will go down on my 
knees to them.” 

“ What is the prospect with the poor, dear things?,. Do 
you know, I was never so anxious about my own Laura 
as I am about those two. I am afraid, somehow, for 
Portia. Does he say any thing to her ? ’ ’ 

“Not a word, special. I don’t know what to think 
about it. Sometimes I think, and then again I don’t 
know. If he really has ceased to love her” — with a 
look to finish the speech. 

“Perhaps that is where the judgment is to come in, 
Laura.” 

“Oh! I am half converted to Dr. Wa3me’s views of 
God and his ways. He sa3’s he never crushed an inno- 
cent person to punish a guilt3' one. That he leads to re- 
pentance b3^ his goodness, and never drives sinners to it 
in wrath. I have thought a world of that, and have tried 
to open my heart to his goodness.” 

“ Ma3’be 3^011 are right. No knowing but that this 
3mung man could teach us all. What does Portia really 
think of him ? ’ ’ 

“ You know, she is the sh3'est in her nature. She don’t 
let herself more than half into her own secret. Not that 
she is secretive, but it is that vii'gin co3mess of hiding her 
love. Of course she worships him, and alwa3's has. You 
know he has high, upish notions of honor. He thinks she 
don’t love him. She quarrelled with him. We are all his 
enemies, and of course he is here only as a ph3’sician, 
not as a lover, or even friend, and he feels that he must 
walk prett3^ straight. I think he loves her. He told her 
he did, I think, though she has confided nothing to me'. I 
think she has to Sarah, and I think he is one to be 
stead3" in his love. It is in his nature to be. You know 
Forrester never got married.” 


TETE YOUNG M.D. 


107 


“ Funn3^ ain’t it, that we two are now read}’ to plot for 
this young man whom we plotted against?” said Mrs. 
Gray. 

“ It is the strangest thing — when I see how God has 
led us in this thing ! If onl}^ something would happen 
between them it would all come right,” said Laura with a 
sigh. 

“There will. There alwa3’s does. How strange that 
thing of his mother being here, and going and kissing Por- 
tia, as if it were to be ! Something will happen, 3’ou ma}^ 
depend upon it,” were Mrs. Gra3’’s final words. 

Dr. lVa3'ne had been called to two or three patients in 
the neighborhood ; and the morning of this same da}’ he 
went to see one near his mother’s, and returned, a little 
after noon, to find himself famous in Eossville. As he 
came into lYarren’s room, Portia met him. 

“ How proud and happ}^ you should be ! ” she said to him 
ingenuousl}’. “No, not proud, but ver}'' happy, and 
thankful, and grateful, that 3’Ou have done this precious 
thing : ’ ’ her e3’es were a little suffused. 

“ Oh ! ” laughing, “ that was not much, and it is a thing 
a 3’oung lad}" can know nothing about,” bending his eyes 
on her. 

“A girl has a right to be glad and grateful,” turning 
her face away, and dropping her eyes. 

Had Laura Barber seen the look the young man gave 
her then, she would have felt quite certain that something 
would happen, and there did. 


108 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


CHAPTER Xni. 

THE RETURN OF GODOLPHIN, AND WHAT HE BROUGHT HIS 
, MASTER. 

On the second morning after the occurrences last related, 
a stable-boy from Brown’s came into Barber’s, and told the 
young M.D. that his horse Dolphin was at the stable for 
him. Of course it greatly surprised him. He stepped 
over to the hotel barn ; and sure enough there he was, ready 
caparisoned with an elegant new saddle covered with 
cloth, bridle, martingale, all complete. Brown said that 
Stewart sent him down to hun. The young man was 
thunderstruck. The horse was evidently intended for 
him ; but that Stewart should trust him out of his own 
hand, especiall}^ that he should invest a considerable sum 
in the needless elegance of his outfit, was amazing. But 
there was the horse, evidently proud of his bravery, so 
neatly toned to perfect taste, and so becoming the beauti- 
ful creature. Wayne .went back. He could hardly re- 
press his emotion. No one had ever rendered him a sub- 
stantial favor before. Of coiu’se this was an advance to 
him, but the manner of it, and in this form, greatly moved' 
him. When he told Warren that Godolphin was in 
Brown’s stable, Mrs. Barber and Portia were present. In 
spite of him his voice had a tremor, and, he wall^ed sud- 
denly to a window. 

“ Dolph at Brown’s? Oh, I am so glad ! ” cried the 
boy, quite starting. His mother went to raise him up. 

“Yes,” said his friend. “Stewart sent him down 


THE RETURN OF GODOLPHIN. 


109 


this morning, they say. He has a beautiful saddle covered 
with blue cloth, russet leather bridle and martingale ; and 
the strangest of it all is, that Stewart should send him to 
me. There is a mistake or a miracle about it,” he said, 
laughing. 

“And so we have got Dolph back, Portia,” said the 
pleased boy ; but Portia had stepped out of the room. 

When he seemed to hesitate as to what he should do, 
Mrs. Barber, who was greatly pleased with his good for- 
tune, said there was nothing for him to do but receive the 
horse, say nothing about the way it came to him, and let 
the thing reveal itself. He needed him, and would soon be 
able to pay Stewart, who knew what he was about. This 
was ou the whole satisfactory. Her husband, learning of 
his fortune, offered him a stall in his own stable for 
Dolphin. 

“Leave him at Brown’s,” said the woman decidedly, 

‘ ‘ where he will be well cared for. Dr. W ayne must not 
have the fragrance of the stable on him.” 

“ I shall be well enough to take care of him in a week 
or two; sha’n’t I, Doctor?” asked Warren, with more 
strength of voice than he had before shown. 

“ Be patient, Warren, and you shall care for him before 
long,” was the cheery reply. 

The incident was an event in Bossville. It ran along 
the street, and in an hour was known to every person in 
the village. It was even told to sweet, pale, hopeful Mrs. 
Marks, who expressed her gratification over it ; and Marks 
said that she was hesitating between Adolphus and Wayne 
as names for her boy. She might take them both. Dolph 
was nearly two years older than when he first exhibited 
his young master’s horsemanship to the admiring villagers ; 
but he had led a life of enforced idleness, and when 
Charles mounted him this morning for a ride and a call or 


no 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


two, the beginnings of a considerable list, the noble fellow, 
in the exultation of his own life, and perhaps conscious 
that he felt the weight of his only master once more, could 
hardly keep himself on the ground, and went off down the 
street in a series of demi- vaults, showing himself and rider 
to the best advantage. 

In the afternoon he went around to Stewart’s, and found 
that gentleman in very good spirits, but reticent, and 
rather mysterious about Godolphin. 

“ Well, now. Doctor, you just ride your horse and take 
the good of him,” was what he said. 

“ But how can I, Stewart? ” 

“How can j^ou ? Well, I don’t believe I could, and 
there are a good many who would not dare try ; but you 
were born to ride him.” 

“ Yes. But I don’t own him.” 

“Well, I don’t know who the devil does, then. I 
don’t. I haven’t a dollar in him ; not but that you are 
all right, but I shouldn’t have invested in that saddle, you 
bet.” 

“ I thought it was funny,” added the j^oung man. 

“ Not so funny leither. I should have done it for you 
as soon as for anybody, but none of us ride such saddles. 
No, Doc, you have other friends who can afford it, and 
who just now would Import an Arabian for you. Had 
you saved my wife, and brought me a boy. Lord bless my 
soul ! I don’t know what I would not have done, though 
I should not have invested in that saddle. You don’t 
need that, though you look well in it.” ’ 

Here was a new idea. 

That evening he went to Marks, who admitted that he 
knew something of the matter, but that he could not now 
tell him a word about it ; that in time, perhaps, it would 
reveal itself to him ; that he had more friends than he 


THE RETURN OF GODOLPHIN. 


Ill 


suspected. The horse was his, and he could not very well 
help himself. Charles went away a little hurt ; and, meet- 
ing his friend Theodore Ross, the young men talked the 
matter over a little, and Wayne manifested a good deal of 
a very young man’s anxiety, and said something of leaving 
the horse at Brown’s on account of his unknown owners. 
Young Ross was at his aunt Laura’s the next morning, and 
spoke of Wayne’s perplexity in Warren’s room, which 
was now quite common to the relatives of the family, and 
where a good many things had been talked over, without 
reference to him, who still seemed oblivious of most 
of them. Soon after his departure, Wayne himself came in. 

“I can tell 3^011 who sent Dolphin to you,” spoke up 
the hitherto silent Warren. 

“You can? Who was it ? ” demanded the young man. 
“ Portia. — Didn’t she, mamma ? ” 

Had an angel appeared, a greater surprise would not 
have been produced in the j^oung M.D. The young lady 
fled. The young man stood an instant paralyzed, and 
turned a face almost pallid to the boy’s mother, and read 
the confirmation of his assertion. • 

“For God’s sake !” said the terrified woman, whose 
first thought was instinctively for her sister, as she went 
to him and laid her hand on his arm, “for God’s sake, 
think how awful this is to her, to be betrayed to you in 
this way ! I do believe you love her with your whole 
heart. If you do, go to her, put your arms about her, 
and tell her you love her. This is the time to do it.” 

“Where is she ?” asked the young man, who needed 
no inspiration, looking around the room with the light 
breaking like new day over his face. 

lUithout a word Laura conducted him up the stairs, and 
in the sort of a vestibule at the top, silently led him to a 
door, upon which she tapped, opened, pushed him in, 


112 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


closed it, and stood there a minute ; and then, as if grasp- 
ing herself, and with a new, strange light in her eyes, she 
went rapidly away. 

The young man found himself in a spacious and very 
neatly furnished room ; but Portia was not there. On the 
opposite side was a door, leading to an inner room, ajar ; 
to this he hurried, and pushed it gently open. It was 
the sleeping-room of the precious one, who had seated 
herself on her bed, turned and buried her face in a pillow, 
which she had drawn up so as to completely cover it, and 
where she was sobbing as if her heart would break. The 
anguish and shame that thus her love had been betrayed, 
when it was not sought, was for ’the time overwhelming. 
The young man sprang forward, knelt by her, gently 
placed an arm about her waist, crying to her in a deeply- 
moved voice, “O Portia! don’t, don’t ! You will break 
my heart ! Sweet, dearest, precious, you know I love 
you with my whole heart and soul ! I always have, and 
never so. tenderly, so devotedly as now.” 

No mortal maiden but would stay her grief to hear such 
words. Her sobbing subsided ; and a hand left the pillow, 
and sought the one which pressed her waist, under and 
into which it insinuated itself, and permitted itself to be 
pressed very warmly. 

“Bless you I bless you! You do love me some, dear- 
est ! ’ ’ 

And then that little head was transferred from the 
senseless pillow 'to the manly shoulder, and the other arm 
came up about a neck, and the tear-stained, blushing face 
with the ripe lips nestled into a very love of a silky 
light-brown whisker, and was blessed, and pressed, and 
caressed yet more — an exceedingly good preliminary 
arrangement. 

“You do love me, Portia — say that you do, sweet 


THE EETTJRN OP GODOLPHIN. 


113 


love,” as his lips tried to turn to those that were hiding, 
and thrilled by the crisp whisker ; and then they turned, 
and permitted themselves to be met and pressed as such 
lips should be, and two loves, two lives, were united, and 
then — 

“Do you forgive me, Charles ?” in a little voice, still 
from the shoulder. 

“ Do you love me, Portia ? ” 

“You know I do. Do you forgive me ? ” 

“For what, precious?” forgetting that he could have 
cause of offence. 

“For my bad conduct, for the awful things I said to 
you.” 

“It was pretty bad, precious, and you would not give 
me one word of hope or comfort to carry away with me.” 

“ Oh, oh, oh ! ” and the sobs came. 

“I do forgive you from my inmost heart. There, 
dearest, don’t.” 

“ I did not believe that wicked, wicked story. You 
must have known I did not. I was so afraid you would 
see how easy it was to gain me,” smothering these words 
in the whiske;’. 

“And you made it so hard and cruel. Why couldn’t 
you give me love for love, Portia? ” 

“I have, I do,” shutting h^ eyes, and leaving her 
mouth exposed, when she breathed again. — “It was not 
so very bad, my getting Dolphin for you, was it? ” 

“Bless you, it was the most precious, generous thing 
you could do, dearest ; for it came from your love. When 
did you think of it ? ” 

“ Oh ! long ago,” lifting her warm face. “ Marks man- 
aged it for me.” 

“ Marks ! I knew he had much to do with it.” 

“ And you will accept him from me, Charles? ” 


114 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS. 


“ Accept him ! Do I not take love and life from you? 
And do you accept me, dearest? ” 

“I always hoped to be your wife, Charles,” with eyes 
and face down, and the little hand was now pulled round 
to his lips as thanking it for itself. 

“ What a wonder, Warren’s speaking of it ! ” she said. 
“ And I thought I should fall.” 

“ How came he to know of it, dearest? ” 

‘ ‘ I told Laura of it in his room three days ago", never 
dreaming he took the least notice of it. ’ ’ 

“ It shows how strong and healthy he is ; and, love, you 
must never mind his saying it. You are rather glad, are 
you not, now, though it came hard on you? ” 

“ Are you glad, Charles? ” 

‘ ‘ Glad ? What a question ! How should I have found 
out ! Besides, I am so glad to owe it to him.” 

“And so am I,” said Portia artlessly. “But you 
would have come to me, — would have said something to 
me, Charles? You have been so cool and indifferent.” 

“Have I? What could I be, dearest? I came back 
expressly to care for Warren. Could I make that a mere 
excuse ? Of course I should have approached you again 
— so as to be certain.” 

“ Did you not think, down deep in your heart, that I — 
I loved you ? ’ ’ 

“ How could I, after your words last fall? ” 

Then he arose, and Portia stood by his side, and they 
turned to the partly closed door, just outside of which 
stood Laura, her face bathed in tears, and expressive of 
the greatest anguish. 

The instant she saw she was discovered, she ran for- 
ward ; and, before they were aware of her purpose, threw 
herself on the floor at their feet. 

“Mrs. Barber, I pray, I implore!” cried the young 
man, taking her by the arms, and attempting to raise her. 


THE RETURN OF GODOLPHIN. 


115 


“ Laura, Laura ! ’’ cried Portia. 

“ I will not rise,” cried the woman, “ till I have told 
my tale, and been forgiven or cursed : I have sinned 
against God and you two innocents, and here will I lie ; I 
have made my peace with God — have tried to, so far as I 
could, without making my peace with you. No, no,” re- 
sisting them, “here will I remain.” Then producing a 
folded paper, she handed it to Charles, who ran his eye 
over the two or three closely written pages, at the end of 
which was the name of Mary Bronson. 

“ Read it, read it ! ” cried the woman. He handed it 
to Portia ; and, in reply to her question of what it was, 
Laura only answered, “ Read it, read it out ! ” 

The girl began ; and with many exclamations of sur- 
prise, and some of anger on her part, and surprise and 
laughteT from Charles, she read the paper through. It 
was Miss Bronson’s detailed statement of the occurrences 
between Mr. Wayne and herself on the night of their mem- 
orable walk, and substantially as the reader knows them. 
Portia drew a long breath of relief, with a glance of wor- 
ship to her lover’s face. 

“ Is this true, Charles? ” she asked. 

“ Quite true to the letter, I fear,” laughing. 

“ And you forgive me? ” asked the girl. 

“ Most cordially ; and so glad for the chance.” 

“ How came you by this? ” to Laura, with a flash. 

“ I always had it — from the day of its date.” 

“Oh, you bad, bad Laura! What did — what could 
you mean, and leave me to — Oh-h-h ! ” 

“ Hear me, and you will have little doubt what I meant. 
I framed the whole conduct of Mary Bronson that night, 
— laid out the whole plan.” 

“You awful Laura ! Oh, oh, oh I ” 

“I knew, if she asked it, you would send Mr. Wayne 


116 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


home with her. She was to slander you to him [‘ Oh,- oh, 
oh ! ’ from Portia] , and detain him away from you. On her 
return, she wrote this out. I studied it, and instructed her 
what to say to you. You both know better than I what 
followed between you. What I worked, planned, and lied 
for, succeeded. You two were separated.” 

“ Laura,” said' the now calmly angry Portia, pale and 
rigid, with compressed lips, “ what could have been the 
cause of this dreadful conduct? What had he done to 
you?” 

“ I hated Charles Wayne.” 

“ Hated him ! O Laura ! that old bad, bad — Oh ! ” — 

“ My father had injured him and his, and I hated him. 
He was good and noble and generous. He loved you, and 
you loved him. I had never known happy love. He 
rescued Warren, my own child, whom I had not half 
loved ; and so I plotted. I foulid a weak tool, whom I 
hired and persuaded” — She paused. “Then God 
smote me in the mother’s heart that had begun to grow in 
me, and I would expiate my sin. I prayed, fasted, 
groaned, wore sackcloth, put ashes on my head, half re- 
pented. My malice went out of me, and my hatred died. 
I would do any thing but own my wrong to you, and repair 
it if I might. And then Charles came back. I was will- 
ing to humble myself before the world, earn the favor of 
God if I might, by half works, and I went to him. He 
came, as I knew he would. On that morning he told me 
God never punished by destroying the innocent ; that he led 
to repentance by mercy, and did not force to it by wrath. 
I half believed this. The more I pondered it, the more I 
believed it. I acted on it. Warren would recover, and 
from man my crime might be hidden. I would win my 
own starved, wretched salvation by penance and expiation 
secretly to God. As Warren began to mend, the good- 


THE RETURN OF GODOLPHIN. 


117 


ness of God for the first time arose like a new light on the 
darkness, the utter wretchedness, of my heart. The 
grand nobleness of this young man, his tenderness and 
purity, your gentleness and goodness, Portia, all led me ; 
the mercies of God led me to full penitence, and then I 
planned and hoped to have happen between you two what 
has happened. Then I would come to you in humble con- 
fession. Me, an old woman, would go on my knees, as I 
have and do, to you two. The anguish, the horror, the 
fear, shame, and darkness of these months, are to go for 
nothing, nothing. Rags and filth are they all, bringing no 
atonement, no peace, scarcely a hope.” 

Then she threw her face into her hands, with her 
splendid hair, streaked with gray, falling over them, and 
burst into sobs. 

“Mrs. Barber! Laura!” cried Charles, kneeling by 
her side, and laying a hand on her own tenderly, “ those 
whom God afflicts are sacred to me. For whatever of 
wrong in act or intent you have done me, from my soul I 
freely forgive you. This is the nature and teaching of 
my mother, and such is her faith in the nature and love 
of the God she adores.” 

• Portia was overwhelmed and distraught with astonish- 
ment, horror, and the confiict of the various and strong' 
emotions struggling for the possession of her bosom. 

“Oh, one moment ago I was so happy ! the world was 
full of love and light and God, and now there comes to 
overwhelm us all the darkness, the curse ” — 

“No, no, love; not the curse. Surely you do not 
mean that. The heart that has borne this has suffered 
under it. Your sister, your almost mother, asks you now, 
in the first hour of our perfect love, to help pluck this 
bitterness away, and dispel this darkness.” 

The girl stood one instant, and then cast herself upon 


118 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


the bosom of the repentant woman. “ My sister, my 
mother, we all need mercy and forgiveness. Mine I give 
you. O Laura ! ” 

Then the woman arose. “ You,” to Charles, “ are the 
good angel of our house. Thank God for the ' day you 
came among us ; — and Portia, bless God that he has 
given you his love and trust. I dare not bless you.” 

Then they turned, and went back to Warren. He, 
seemed to have fallen into a slight drowse, from which 
their presence awoke him. He looked wide-eyed from 
one to the other. Something of the peace and serenity, 
the hope and happiness, in the faces of the lovers, struck 
him. “Charles, Portia, mother — have we all died, and 
are we all in heaven? ” he asked. 

“In heaven? Almost. What an idea! What made 
you think so? ” asked Portia. 

“ You look so beautiful and sweet, and so does Charles, 
and mother has it too now.” 

“We are to make a heaven here,” said Charles very 
brightly. 

“And we owe it all to Charles ; don’t we, Warren dear,” 
said his mother, kissing him tenderly. 

“And, mother, you have it too,” he repeated, looking 
into her face. “ You look like Portia now.” 

Then the lovers kissed him. 

‘ ‘ I know certainly now I am going to get well ; and 
Charles, Portia will go with us now,” he said. 

Then Portia related the little incident of having heard 
their words on that evening. 

“ And Charles said you would not want to go with us.” 

“ And I did all the time,” she answered. 

“ And I meant to ask you some time,” said Warren. 

“ So you see the way was to be 'opened for us,” Portia 
said archly to Charles. 


THE EETURN' OF GODOLPHIH. 


119 


“ And mother may go now ; can’t she, Charles? ” asked 
the boy. 

“Yes, she will go with us now. We shall all go to- 
gether.” 

The disclosures of Laura were an awful revelation to 
the young lovers. Even Charles had only heard of the 
probabilities of such conduct, and that in books. To the 
sweet and gentle Portia, they opened up rifts to depths 
and darkness in the human heart undreamed of ; and this 
was her sister Laura, whose beauty she used to be proud 
of, with whom she had lived all her life, who reared her, 
whom she loved m'ore as a mother than a sister. Were 
such things possible ? Had she germs of them in her own 
nature? This sister had been converted, was a member 
of the church, and in her heart, below that fair, rounded 
woman’s bosom, were hidden this hate and malice. But 
it was purged now : the inexorable hand of God had led 
and held her till she had voluntarily confessed. She had 
observed a change growing and deepening from the first 
of Warren’s mysterious illness. At first a rigid exaeti- 
tude in the performance of what she called her -duties, 
more exacting and sharply defined as the case grew more 
hopeless. Her dealing with her own person, her fastings, 
vigils, and the coarse arraying of herself, were, as she 
thought, the results of her mother’s care, love, and over- 
strained, long- continued anxiety. Love had finally come 
into her heart and soul, — love of God, love of her off- 
spring, as she had never felt it before, and peace had 
come to her, to them all ; only there was the form of 
that father groping in the ways of sin and degradation. 
Even Charles could not reach him, she feared. All these 
things, which flashed on the quick mind of the girl, 
ran and shaped themselves, without seeming effort on her 
part, as they do in the brains of women, and all the time 


120 


THE HOUSE OF ROSS. 


she went, in a serene, deep, sweet peace in heart and soul, 
about the room of Warren. 

No wonder the poor boy asked if it were heaven, nor 
that he saw a change in his mother’s face. All the hard, 
sharp lines had gone out of it. The fixed, sad, hopeless, 
worn look, with the contraction between the brows, had 
gone, and quietly and humbly she busied herself about 
her woman’s offices. 

Some days would elapse before, in the atmosphere of 
the house, all traces of the purifying storm would be 
effaced ; yet both women felt that their lives toward each 
other were set in the new channels of love and confidence. 
Something indefinable, the certain existence of which the 
younger had never been assured of, had passed forever 
away. Silently, in- Laura’s presence, she placed the 
statement of Mary Bronson in the fire, kept burning in 
Warren’s room since the autumn days began. Both 
watched it light up till it turned to white ashes, and then 
their eyes met in reconciliation and love. 

“It was to be,” said Laura; “and, thank God! it 
finally came through him. O Portia ! my almost perfect 
sister, even you are hardly worthy of him. Perhaps the 
best woman is not the equal of the best man. And he 
has never experienced a change of heart.” 

“ That is not Charles’s theory,” answered Portia to the 
first part of Laura’s speech. “He thinks that women 
are inherently better and higher than men. ’ ’ 

“ It may be,” answered Laura sadly. “ I was formed 
baser, and lived lower.” 

“My sister-mother!” said Portia, casting her arms 
about the humble woman’s neck, and kissing her. 

“Bless you, bless you, Portia! I wanted to feel your 
arms and kiss to know that I am to remain in your love.” 

Yes, she was one of them, was to go with them ; but 


THE RETERN OF GODOLPHIN. 


121 


not all at once and wholly did the better angels rule her 
heart and life. The shadow of the conflict hung about 
her. The hard, guileful elements of her nature were not 
eradicated nor at once changed. War was long waged 
with them. The deep lines of character and conduct were 
not at once effaced ; they never are. The reformation of 
a life, the radical change of the heart, its impulses and 
affections, is a labor of watchful, faithful years ; and the 
building-up of new life, a new character, a renewed 
nature, never was and never will be the work of an hour, 
under any supposed influences. All this Laura found 
and experienced to be true. With such strength and 
grace as she found in the flrmness and force of the 
tenacious nature, the qualities she inherited, persistently 
directed to the redemption of herself, she succeeded 
finally ; and peace and trust and hope, the love of others, 
all came to be hers. In her soul she thought she owed 
this to Charles Wayne, whom, in a far-off, shadowy way, 
she fancied resembled Him to whom she was led ; and it 
shocked her to think this resemblance existed, although 
the man, as she feared, was still in a state of nature. 
Poor woman ! 


122 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AFTER. THINGS NOT LEFT WHOLLY TO THE READER'S 

IMAGINATION, AS THEY GENERALLY ARE. 

The young doctor bad a call or two to make ; and be 
left tbe bouse almost at once, after bis last words to 
Warren, “We shall all go together.” 

“You won’t be gone very long?” said Portia, who 
followed^ him to tbe door. 

‘ ‘ Gone long ? ’ ’ and be bent back low to her blushing 
lips. “ I should think not so very long,” and he galloped 
off, smiling brightly. And she went back to think, and 
to her little scene with Laura. If, in the glory, the ex- 
hilaration, of this morning, a thought of Laura Barber 
came to Wayne, it projected no shadow into his day. It 
was but a nightmarish memory of a bad dream of the 
night that was past. His nature was joyous. Paradise 
opened about him. He had no wish to restrain Dolphin, 
save within the limits of prudence to the generous-spirited 
horse himself. He extended his ride to his mother’s 
house. She must know of it. 

“ I saw all how it would be,” his mother said to him. 
“ I might have preferred a daughter from another house. 
I am more than content with her, Charles ; and it is a 
good end to all.” 

“And so you knew, mother dear? Didn’t you also 
know how precious a word of comfort would have been to 
me? ” And he bent, and kissed her lips. 

‘ ‘ And you are glad now you did not get it from me ? 


AFTER. 


123 


You are wiser than Forrester was,” she said a little 
sadly. 

Of course he called at Anne’s gate on his way back to 
Portia. 

“Oh! you have found out about Dolphin,” she cried, 
as he rode up, going out to him. “ I see it in your face.” 

“And some other things,” he answered gayly. 

“Yes, I see it all ; but the other things were an open 
secret to everybody. And, Charles, I suspect it was her 
hand that sent you this horse. I thought so all the time. 
On my heart and soul I am glad of it if she did. It 
shows there is some real genuine good stuff in her, if she 
is a Ross.” 

“As much as can be in one woman,” he said; “no 
doubt of that.” 

“Of course, of course, and you are in a hurry to go 
back to her. And I shall have you up here now : the 
walk is such a paradise for lovers, and you two owe it to 
me.” 

A pair of wide gray eyes watched his return. He alit 
at Brown’s, threw his bridle-reins to a stable man, and 
his eager glance toward the Barber mansion. A heart 
fluttered. Surely she might go to meet him. Was he not 
now hers, — hers by right of love, by his own pledge, 
by her acceptance? She opened the door, ventured on 
the step. A motion of his hand, and she ran down as 
he opened the front gate. Half Rossville saw her. What 
did she care ? He called to her ; and with what a blessed 
sense of proprietorship she turned and put her hand with- 
in his arm, the humid light in her veiled eyes, the warm 
blood mantling her cheek. 

‘ ‘ May I always come ? ” 

“May I always come?” mimicking her little voice. 

‘ ‘ What a question ! Always ask your blessed little 
heart,’! with a look that kept her eyes down. 


124 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


Slowly they walked up the broad flower-bordered way, 
as he told of his ride, and then he inquired of Warren. 

“Oh, he is so strong and fresh ! 

“ And Laura? ” 

“She is cheerful and at peace. Only thinli, love as — 
as ” — and she stopped. 

“We know it, dearest,” he added. 

“Was never hers. Her nature was strong. She was 
never more than half a Christian, I fear, and she lived in 
half night,” she said. 

“Even her children brought little to her,” he added. 
“ Oh ! you must go and see our baby over at Marks’s,” 
vivaciously. 

“ Can I go with you ? ” 

“ Certainly, in a day or two.” 

As they stood by the door, — “Aunt Gray is here. 
She and Laura were by themselves ; and they have wept 
and cried, and then aunt came and kissed me, and will be 
real good to you. Do you know, I never heard of the old 
trouble till you went away,” she said. 

“ I supposed you had not. Let us not be unhappy 
over the past, love,” he answered. 

They found Mrs. Gray in Warren’s room. She came 
directly to Charles, saying, “I was your enemy: I want 
to be your friend. I know every thing. You must let 
me love you as my youngest brother, who is to be the 
pet.” 

“I am very glad,” he said warmly. “It is so much 
sweeter to be loved.” And he bent, and kissed her 
withered cheek. 

Soon after, good-hearted, homely aunt Dorcas came in 
to congratulate and rejoice with them all. 

They had the old-fashioned dinner late that day ; and 
then the young people were quite to themselves for two 


AFTER. 


125 


or three hours, with Warren, when Charles told one of 
his old stories, into which he wove a tale of happy love. 
When the sun was running downward in the shortening 
day, Warren consented that they might go for a walk, — 
a good long walk on the west side of the river. They 
went out over the bridge, up the hill, and into Sarah’s, 
just to let her see and rejoice in their happiness. The 
summer’s warm blood was on the silver-leaved maples, 
and streaks here and there dyed the deeper foliage of the 
sugar- trees, while gold and russet, and all the shades of 
brown, were in the hickories, the tulip poplars, and beeches.' 
The cheery notes of the meadow-larks came up from the 
fields, and the short trills of the bluebirds down from the 
hazy sky, plaintive with the sorrow of their approaching 
departure from all the pleasant places. To try to note 
the words, the trills, and ecstasies of the lovers, would be 
as difficult as to gather up and preserve the brightness of 
the fading day, and the splendors of the dying year. 
They went to Stewart’s, and Anne gave them tea. She 
observed that Portia made conscientious efforts to eat her 
bread and butter, as the more decorous and conventional 
woman will at such times ; while Charles recklessly aban- 
doned himself to the happy inspirations of his exultant 
soul, and gave utterance to the gay, .bright things which 
effervesced and broke upon his lips, as the bubbles of 
light and color on a brimming goblet of champagne. 

On their way back, Portia, in the tenderness of her full 
heart, which felt akin to sorrow, told him the story of 
Sarah. She feared that there was resting in his mind, in 
that of his mother and brothers, an unjust impression 
toward her. 

‘ ‘ It was an awful blow to the tenderest, truest heart 
that ever throbbed. Forrester supposed she loved him as 
much as was in her nature,” said Charles. 


126 


THE HOUSE OF EOSS. 


“ What was it, then, Charles? ’’ 

“He thought her heart wavered, that she was drawn by 
the glitter and show of your brother : she did marry him, 
and he decked her in chains and jewelry. My brother set 
his life to the memory of a lost love. Had she remained 
as true, he would, in time, have returned to her. We 
always thought that she was greatly influenced by White 
and his sister,” was his summing up of the case. 

“ What would you have done in your brother’s place, 
Charles?” 

“I would* have carried her off from forty John Rosses 
if she had a spark of love for me,” with a laugh. 

As they were about fo part for the night, and stood with 
clasped hands, — 

“ What a wonderful day this has been ! ” said Portia. 
“ What dearest, what strange things, have happened! I 
must think them all over, and separate, and set them 
apart. Some I will lay away.” 

“Ever so far away, and forget them, love,” said 
Charles. 

“And forget them. ‘Some I shall hide away in my 
heart as too precious for the day, and some 'I shall keep 
bright for constant use to cheer me when you are away,” 
she said. 

“ What a practical little philosopher you are,” said he, 
touching her lips. “ Which will be the most precious one, 
I wonder.” 

“ They are many ; I can’t tell just now,” in the tender- 
est of voices. 

“ When we first joined our lips? ” 

“ Perhaps so,” with mounting color. “ Don’t ask just 
now.” 

‘ ‘ Which will you cherish most ? ’ ’ 

“ Oh ! when you first came to me, and put your arm about 
me, so generously to save me from myself,” warmly. 


AFTER. 


127 


“ Which are the most blessed of all? ’’ 

“ All the minutes since then. When you were with me, 
and when you were away ; for then I had so much to think 
of."’ 

And then they parted for the night. 

What full, brimming days were those ! What holy, 
serene twilight evenings and nights ! There was ample 
leisure for solitary walks, communions, conversations and 
readings, and the coming to know each other better in 
their growing love. 

To Charles, Portia was a perpetual study, as one petal 
after another of the ever unfolding, never fully-blown bud 
of her love shyly developed itself to him, revealing a new 
tint, giving out a new and delicate fragrance of the hidden 
heart of passion, of the full strength and fervor of which 
she was herself unconscious. 

Warren was not forgotten. With the deepening au- 
tumn, day by day his strength and vigor increased. He 
finally could see from a window Charles on Dolphin, who 
lifted his proud head up under and almost into his master’s 
face. Then he went out and rode after him, was placed 
on him, and finally could mount him alone. 

And there was the recovering young mother, and that 
wonderful boy-baby ! Never up to that time had there 
been such a one to the mother, or to Portia. Next — no 
not next, but somewhat in the same line with her lover — 
the young girl ranked that soft, pulpy baby. 

She would be married in the spring, when the birds and 
buds and flowers came. And her sisters wondered that 
Charles, a woman’s ideal of a lover, would consent to such 
delay. “It can never come to her but once,” he said, 
“ her maiden love, her devoted lover. She shall have her 
fullest day of it, and her way with it. All onr lives will 
remain after, and am I not now as happy as I deserve I 
Why should I wish to squander all my treasures? ” 


128 


THE HOUSE OF BOSS. 


Wiser than most men in his generous forbearance ! Of 
com’se the day was named, and came long ago, but I am to ^~\ 
leave the lovers with the charm and romance of young ' 
love fresh upon them, living through the celestial inter- 
vening hours and days, while yet they may have the read- 
er’s sympathy and tender interest with them. I prefer j 
they should remain with the halo of his fancy around \ 
them, where they may remain in the brightness of young j 
lovers perpetually. 

I turn back, and review my own first chapter. ' I close . 
my eyes ; and the solitary beautiful picture comes back to 
me as I last saw it, — the slow moving river, fiecked with 
sunshine, and bearing the golden autumn leaves ; the em- 
bowering trees ; the roofs and gleam^ of the white walls 
of the three or four houses, under the sun of early Indian 
summer, lovely and lonely ; all there is of Rossville, wheie 
once flourished the House of Ross. 


THE STOWES OF AUBURN. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE HORNS OF HABAKKUK. 

The colonists of the Western Reserve were many of 
them men of strong personal peculiarities. Some enter- 
prise, courage, and will were essential to carry men six 
hundred^ miles, a land journey, one-half of which was into 
an interminable wilderness. Once there, a full develop- 
ment and exercise of those qualities, with thrift and 
endurance, were necessary to existence ; while a removal 
of the restraints and requirements of the social life of the 
oldest States, and the absolute freedom of the Western 
wilderness, tended to bring into play and harden into 
character all the strongest qualities and tendencies of 
individuals, which in older communities are repressed, 
and where men present a monotonous and unpicturesque 
uniformity of life, and mode of thought. All new commu- 
nities abound in the variety and contrast of character, the 
eccentricities and peculiarities so attractive to the artist. 
The first and second generations of the descendants of 
the Puritans in the Ohio woods were rich in specimens, 
having individualities more or less distinctly marked. 
Though a native of the oldest New-England State, I was 


130 


THE STOWES OF AUBUEH. 


carried from it at an age so early that the commonwealth 
which gave me birth could have suffered little by that 
event. My earliest recollections are of a period toward 
the close of the first quarter of the present century, and 
fresh with the life and its incidents of that very primi- 
tive and now seemingly remote time, and of a generation 
of men whose peculiarities only became apparent to me as 
a rapidly developed and ripened society rendered them 
obvious and brought them out. I recall them, as I do that 
large and strongly-marked, old-fashioned New-England 
type of head and face, as something almost extinct in the 
later generations. 

Of these men almost the first whom I can recall was a 
man by the name of Stowe, “Old Stowe” as he was 
called. Indeed, I don’t know that he ever had any other 
name. He was old, always must have been, — so old, 
when I remember to have seen him first, that he had 
reached his full capacity of growing old, and never did 
grow any older, though he lived until I reached manhood. 
It was of him that an kreverent youth said that ‘ ‘ he 
would never die, but would be taken off on foot.” A 
slight, shrunken, little old man, always in old, rusty black 
fearfully bespattered in front with tobacco- juice, with an 
immense bell-crowned hat big enough to hold him, sus- 
pended over him by his ears, and canted back so that it 
rested on the coat-eollar, thus enabling him to secure an 
uncertain lookout in front. The face was always pallid 
and withered, eyes always rheumy, and the voice cracked 
and thin ; yet a man of mark he was in his day, a man 
of wealth for his time, and a man of will, as well as 
shrewdness. 

Like so many men of an older time, and some of his 
own, he devoted every possible moment of his later years 
to a study of the Bible and to interminable disputations 


THE HORNS OF HABAKKUK. 


13J 


upon its texts, and especially of the occult subject of the 
prophesies. I can conjure him before me now, coming 
out from his sleeping-room early in the morning, and sit- 
ting down to draw up his old-fashioned long hose, “ a 
world too wide for his shrunk shanks,” when some text 
of Isaiah or Ezekiel would strike his mind and arrest the 
less important matter of dressing, which might not be re- 
sumed, unless the day should prove unfavorable for bibli- 
cal exposition or controversy. The old man was the terror 
of all the orthodox preachers of that day and region, who 
usually avoided him as they would one of the beasts of 
Daniel. Fortunately the infirmity of age did not permit 
his poaching at any great distance fron^ home ; and he was 
compelled to limit his depredations to hie own immediate 
neighborhood, where he grimly sat, Bible in hand, like a 
little old spider confined to the small circle of a home web. 

He had, however, one unfailing resource, his one earthly 
stay, — Uncle Ben Woodin, a short, crooked, heavy-shoul- 
dered, wry-necked, curmudgeonly' old man, with an im- 
mense head, and shaggy brow overhanging his little, 
tep-sunken gray eyes, one of which was blind, or had 
such a cast that it wmuld have been of no use to anybody 
else. Uncle Ben was the product of many crabbed and 
acrid elements, never able to agree in any thing, and each 
contributing its utmost to furnish forth a human being 
who should not at any time, under any circumstances, ever 
agree with any other person concerning any thing what- 
ever. Less fortunate in life than Old Stowe, unsocial, 
tart and taciturn, shrewd and cunning, but often irritable, 
and thrown off his guard, he, too, was a hard student of 
th<s elder Scriptures, spending days in close study, in some 
dim nook or corner, working out a train or chain of scrip- 
tural thought and argument. Of the two, Stowe was the 
more fluent and cooler- tempered, and he usually made the 


132 


THE STOWES OF AUBUEH. 


onset Woodin may have been the deeper or more cun- 
ning, and generally stood sulkily on the defensive. This 
enabled him to be always adverse. To have been in 
accord with any man would have been fatal to him. Old 
Stowe used to say of him that he would never go to heaven 
if there was any other place he could get to, and not unless, 
like a worm, he could bore a small, crooked hole of 
his own in through the wall. Both were illiterate men. 
Neither had seen a biblical commentary, or knew any 
thing of any book but the Bible. Many were the battles 
royal of these doughty champions, wherever, whenever, 
and however they met, in field, forest, or wayside. At a 
raising, logging-bee, or corn-husking, without greeting or 
preliminary word, the war opened, raged, and was waged, 
until some fortuitous incident beyond their control sepa- 
rated them for the time. Hour after hour the thin, 
cracked voice of Old Stowe, “ scattering the loose ex- 
pectoration of his speech” with innumerable hard texts, 
and the low, dry, husky mumble of Old Ben in reply, 
were heard breaking off where they began, and joining 
battle as they might at the next encounter. Sometimes 
the asperities of Uncle Ben’s temper produced and pro- 
voked some sharp words, giving a momentary personal 
turn to the chronic war, though no permanent alienation 
followed. Indeed, they were quite too necessary to each 
other’s happiness to become enemies. There was once a 
difference and a notable lawsuit between them ; but the 
exigencies of the theological war brought them together 
again, though it was thought that Uncle Ben, who was 
worsted in the suit, was always a little sore. When irri- 
tated, he sometimes found relief in calling his adver- 
sary “An old Univarsalar ; ” and Old Stowe had been 
known to retort upon him the epithet, ‘ ‘ A hell Bedemp- 
tioner;” names which may have ' indicated some phase 


THE HORNS OF HABAKKUK. 


133 


of their respective creeds, to those who understood the 
terms. 

A day came, however, when the adverse hosts met, 
memorable for the obstinacy of the fight, and the unhappy 
consequences which followed, and which influenced, and 
to some extent produced, the events -of the tale I am to 
tell. 

Old Stowe had a pleasant residence on the summit of a 
gentle swell, about a mile south of the Newbury line, on 
the old north and south state road, in Auburn. A bit 
of finely preserved forest sheltered its northern and 
western exposures ; while east its outlook was wide, al- 
most grand, over the Cuyahoga Valley ; while southerly 
there was a moderate descent for two or three miles 
through one of the loveliest stretches of country in all 
that beautiful region. At Auburn Corners, a thriving lit- 
tle vill a mile and a half south, lived Uncle Ben Woodin. 
It was well on in June, in the morning of an exquisite day, 
a long, bright day of sun, blue sky, and breeze, such as 
comes nowhere on this earth now, that these grim old 
warriors met by mutual design as well as mutual accident, 
though seeking each other. It was the summer that an 
elder brother, the colonel, was, with a party of young 
carpenters, building a very spacious house for one of the 
younger Stowes (A1 virus) at some distance south from 
the old man’s residence. It seems that these battered 
veterans had not met for some weeks, and on this morn- 
ing Old Stowe shouldered up his big Bible, and trudged 
off valiantly down the roadjowards the Corners in quest 
of his foe ; and, as the prophets would have it. Uncle Ben 
had at an earlier hour sallied forth, and was actually 
charging manfully up hill. Scriptures in hand, to storm 
Old Stowe’s fortress ; and they met in the highway just 
above where the boys were at work on the new building. 


134 


THE STOWES OF AUEUHN. 


<-fbusy time there were few journey ers on thai 
^and without waste of time they fell to. 1 


I n that 



fierce disputants had but now and then a solitary auditor. 
Some lonely wanderer on that summer day, struck with 
the spectacle of those two old men fiercely pelting each 
other with rugged names, and scraps from the dark say- 
ings of the rapt old bards of the elder Scriptures, under 
that June sun, would pause in surprise, listen in wonder, 
go on, linger, look back, and resume his journey. What 
they said, what texts they quoted, what doctrines were 
advanced, what arguments were presented or points dis- 
puted or settled, was never reported. They were all the 
livelong day under the eyes, and only just out of the 
hearing, of four amused young spectators. There was a 
little butternut-tree that made a scant shade, and a bit of 
a decayed log in a corner of the crooked fence, the place 
of their encounter. Sometimes they sat together and 
read from their Bibles ; sometimes one sat while the other 
harangued him orderly, and sometimes both were standing 
vociferating at each other at the same time with great 
heat, when the scoffing young reprobates would catch the 
sharp pipes of Old Stowe, and the raised, gruff growl of 
Old Woodiu, contending for the mastery in sound. 

When the young Mrs. Stowe’s dinner was ready, at ex- 
act twelve, she went out and proposed an armistice, and 
invited the champions to dine. They hardly seemed aware 
of her presence, and never came to know the object of 
her interference. All the long afternoon the war went on, 
and towards nightfall the parties were evidently urging it 
with undiminished ardor. Indeed, it was - beginning do. 
take a personal turn ; and, the day being done, the colonel, 
with one or two of the young men, went out to the battle- 
field. 

When they approached within hearing. Uncle Ben was 


THE HORNS OF HABAKKUK. 


135 


applying some of the names of the apocalyptic visions to 
his adversary, and accused him of producing some very 
unwarrantable 'evidence on the trial of the old lawsuit. 
Old Stowe probably saw the approach of the young men, 
and was disposed to be a little facetious, as he sometimes 
was. 

“Uncle Ben, I have a question to ask,” he said in his 
thin, crackling voice. 

“Ask it then,” growled old Ben’s bass. 

‘ ‘ Why am I like Paul at Ephesus ? ” 

“ Why are you like Paul at Ephesus? You ain’t.” 

“ Because, after the manner o’ men, I’m war’en with a 
beast. Ha, ha, ha ! ” in broken quavers. 

“ You ole seven- headed, ten-horned Univarsalar,” 
cried old Ben, raising his Bible in both hands, and ad- 
vancing as if to lay his enemy with it. “ The Scripters 
move us in sundry places,” he cried. 

“Uncle Ben,” said the colonel, stepping forward, and 
taking hold of the impending Word with one hand, “I 
wouldn’t let him have it that way. It may be more strik- 
ing, but I don’t think it is so convincing.” 

“Why carnal, is that you? Here I’ve been all day 
tryin’ to make Ole’ Stowe understand about Habakkuk’s 
horns cornin’ out on his hand, — tenth varse, chapter 
third, — and he’s as obstinate as a mule.” 

“Well, Uncle Ben, if Habakkuk was a horned ani- 
mal, he would be too much for me,” laughingly the colo- 
nel answered. 

“Why, now, see here, carnal,” — 

“ It means God’s power,” interrupted Stowe. “ God’s 
power on airth.” 

“ I won’t talk with such an ole fool,” said Uncle Ben, 
turning away, and walking a few steps ; then, going sud- 
denly back, he approached his opponent, and said, — 


136 


THE STOWES OF AUBURN. 


“I s’pose you think that that Dave Wilson o’ yourn 
will git our Milley, don’t you?” when he turned, and 
without another word, or waiting for any reply, shuffled 
off down the road towards home. 


SHOWS WHAT CAME OF IT. 


137 


\ 


CHAPTER II. 

SHOWS WHAT CAME OF IT. 

That was the summer set apart in my boyish memory 
as sacred to Ama Moore, — sweet Ama Moore, as lovely, 
mirthful, hearty, blue-eyed, blonde - beauty as ever be- 
witched the fancy of a dreamy boy of nineteen. She 
was then but sixteen, mature in form, which was round, 
supple, strong, with the fresh roses and wine of youth, 
and the faint throbs of maturing womanhood just begin- 
ning to disturb her heart, and send its color to her cheek. 
In this world is there any thing sweeter or purer than the 
untouched liking of an innocent youth and maiden who 
are drawn to each other without knowing or caring why ? 
She was the hired girl of the younger A1 virus Stowe, 
when hired girl and man were the equals of master and 
mistress in the perfect social democracy that ruled that 
day. It is curious, psychologically, what immense inter- 
est such a youth and maiden can find in going to meetings 
when they go together, especially of evenings, and par- 
ticularly if the way is lonely, and leads through a small 
wood. Three-quarters of a mile east of Stowe’s was a 
region known as the Valley, formed by the Bridge Creek 
on its way to the more remote Cuyahoga. It was a fertile 
and beautiful tract of small extent, and picturesque even 
with stumpy fields, log buildings, and rude breaks in the 
wonderful forest that still covered it. A population had 
rushed into it from a part of York State (as New York 
was called) contiguous to Pennsylvania, and had brought 


138 THE STOWES OF AUBUEN. 

in all sorts of German names with an element not New 
England. There were many of the enthusiastic Protestant 
Methodists, and in a chronic religious ferment. They 
had built an immense log building as a place of worship, 
known to the ungodly by various ribald names. A large, 
rude, illy-lighted temple it was, by day or night ; and 
the meetings held there not un frequently attracted the 
irreverent young men for many miles around. There was 
no unusual excitement attending the gatherings of that 
summer ; but the charm of companionship which drew two 
into its circle made us quite punctual in attendance upon 
the Sunday evening services at this tabernacle, though 
with what spiritual advantage to us I cannot say. 

On the Sunday evening following the memorable en- 
counter described above, Milley AVoodin, as she was called, 
came up to go with us over to the Valley meeting. She 
was but distantly related to the AVoodins on her mother’s 
side, who, dying in Milley’s infancy, left her to the care 
of old Mrs. AA^oodin, an excellent, long-suffering woman, 
who was mother and grandmother to her. She was a 
great friend of Ama, though two years older, quite a ma- 
ture, marriageable age for young women of that time. 
As unlike Ama in person was she as could well be, tall 
and slender, a brunette, with splendid dark eyes, and quite 
a favorite. It was supposed to be an understood thing 
between her and young AA^ilson in the Stowe neighbor- 
hood. Dave had been in some sort brought up by the 
elder Stowe ; and when he became of age had received a 
hundred dollars, a yoke of steers, and a young colt. He 
was now about twenty-four, a bright, spirited, good-look- 
ing, intelligent young farmer, skilled with the axe and 
rille, and an expert in breaking a colt, or taming a wild 
steer. He continued in the old man’s service since his 
arrival at age, and had invested his earnings in the pur- 


SHOWS WHAT CAME OF IT. 


139 


chase of a fine tract of nearly wild land in the west part 
of Auburn. 

Dave managed to be informed of the movements of 
Milley, and was at the meeting soon after we reached it. 
We had noticed that Milley was a little pensive all the 
evening, just a shade not herself. As we left the meet- 
ing-house Dave joined us, intending to become the par- 
ticular escort of Milley, who, as we supposed, would go 
home to Uncle Ben’s. She met Wilson very coldly, and 
was not inclined to separate herself from us, or permit 
him to approach her in any direct way. Her conduct, so 
new and strange, surprised and then irritated the young 
fellow. “ What was the reason? what had he done that 
she treated him in that way ? ” As Milley walked with us, 
we had to hear what was said between them. 

“Mr. Yfilson,” she answered very coldly, “ it^ is right 
you should know that Grandfather Woodin has forbidden 
my being in your company. You cannot come to our 
house, nor can I see you.” It was said not very gra- 
ciously. 

‘ ‘ The old ’ ’ — 

“ David, you are not to say one word against him. I’ll 
not hear it ! ” with spirit, interrupting him. 

“ Well, I think it darned hard.” 

“ I don’t care if you do : you sha’n’t say a word against 
him.” They walked on in silence. At length, — 

“Milley, may I tallv with you a little alone?” very 
subdued. 

“ I cannot permit that,” ungraciously. 

‘ ‘ Are you not old enough to think and act for yourself, 
Milley? And is it very much that I am asking of you? ” 

“I am thinking and acting for myself now, David.” 

“ My God, Milley ! do you mean this, with all that has 
been between us? ” 


140 


THE STOWES OF AUBUKH. 


“ I have never understood that there was any thing be- 
tween us any more than between any young man and 
woman. WeVe been pleasant acquaintances enough; 
nothing more, on my part.” 

‘ ‘ O Milley ! can this be true ? It was all the world to 
me. You were more than all the world to me,” very 
much distressed. 

“I don’t think you’d break your heart, Dave,” with 
cold indifference. 

“ After what you have just said to me, Milley, I don’t 
believe I shall,” bitterly. 

“ Then you ought to be glad I told you.” 

“I am.” 

“There is another thing, Mr. WTlson. There is a 
story about you, as you know. It has come to me again, 
and is true.” This was with a little feeling. 

The story of my being drunk? And who told that to 
you now ? ’ ’ 

“ One who knows.” 

“ John Graham. Of course it was him, — the liar ! ” 

“You had better say that to him, Mr. AYilson : if you 
cared for my good opinion, you would disprove the story.” 

“I don’t know as I particularly care for your good 
opinion. Miss Woodin, or Mrs. Graham, or whatever 
name you may choose. If I ever had it, you would not 
have listened to this stuff against me.” This was said 
with the air of one who had made up his mind. 

There was no answer to this ; and we walked on in 
silence until we passed the woods, and came into the open 
field back of Alvirus Stowe’s house, forty or fifty rods 
distant from it. 

“Good-evening” to Ama, “good-evening” to me, 

good-by ” to Milley said Wilson (the last quite em- \ 
phatic) ; and he strode off across the fields, a nearer way 1 


SHOWS WHAT CAME OF IT. 141 

for his home ; and his rapidly receding figure was soon lost 
in the warm June night. 

Not a word was said between us after Dave left us. 
\yhen we reached the house, the girls entered, and I went 
into the little pantry, standing outside for a bit of cake 
and cheese and a bowl of milk. A young man at nineteen 
is seldom so angry or sad for another as to forget his 
lunch after a walk and a short fast. Mrs. Stowe had left 
a light burning in the small room for me, and a moment 
after Ama came in also. I saw by her face that she was 
a good deal moved. 

“ What do you think of it? ” I asked. 

“ I think Dave Wilson is a fool to get mad at a word, 
and go off so. He’s a fool ! ” 

“ And I think Milley Woodin is a good deal worse than 
a fool,” I answered in sharp anger. 

“ What does a boy know about these things? ” she re- 
plied with a superb disdain — the woman ! 

The little pantry was suddenly too small for me ; and 
I strode out without a word, but with a very grand air. I 
had not gone many steps before a little ripple of light 
footsteps, laughter, and rustling draperies came after me. 

‘ ‘ Are you going off mad too ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What else can you expect from a hoy ? ’ ’ without stop- 
ping, or turning my head. 

‘ ‘ Good-night, ’ ’ she said very sweetly and a little sadly. 

No response, and I entered the new house where my 
quarters were. Oh, dear ! it is one of the first, if not the 
bitterest, of a young man’s pains, when he discovers that 
the girl of his fancy has become a woman while he remains 
a boy, and she makes him believe that she has found it 
out also. I had in some way been made aware of this 
fact before, when I had seen the young girl surrounded by 
real young men of twenty-six, who treated her with the 


142 • THE STOWES OF AUBUEN. 

respectful admiration of an assured woman, when my 
blonde face was almost as smooth as her own. 

Milley Woodin went home before breakfast the next 
morning. Almost the first thing I heard, through the 
open windows of the but partially enclosed house, was the 
snatches of a song from Ama, with little gushes of heart- 
felt laughter as she went in and out from pantry to kitchen 
about her work ; but the sting was in my heart, if such a 
thing was then developed ; and, besides, Ama was on the 
side of Milley, and justified her outrageous treatment of 
Dave AYilson ; and when I saw her bandying light words 
with my seniors, and seemingly without a thought of me, 
a sort of boyish •resentment came in, to arm at the least 
my manner with indifference. 

Ama told Mrs. Stowe of what occurred between Dave 
and Milley, and ‘she applied to me for my version, and 
from both of us got a very correct idea of it. It made 
quite an impression on all the circle of the Stowes with 
whom the yonng people were favorites, and was regarded 
as putting an end to any supposed match between them. 
At the same time it placed Milley in a light w^hich much 
lessened the regret on Wilson’s account, who was too 
proud and spirited, as was supposed, to suffer very deeply 
or long. None of them were much surprised at Old Ben’s 
course, which provoked several sharp quotations of Scrip- 
ture from the elder Stowe. 

Aina’s mother lived below the Corners, and she went 
home the Saturday evening following ; and the next Sun- 
day evening Ama, Milley, and Miss Craft, a tall, showy 
girl, daughter of Uncle Bill Craft, went up the Valley road 
together. Auburn at that time could produce nothing 
fairer, and the three were a sensation that night at the 
crowded meeting-house. It was a beautiful moonlit 
night ; and after the services the thi-e« giils, in their white 


SHOWS WHAT CAME OF IT. 


143 


robes, were the centre of a longing, admiring group of 
jmimg men, conspicuous among whom was John Graham. 
Dave and I were there, but under a cloud, — he really, and 
I affectedly, — and we stood apart. The sight of John 
greatly incensed Wilson, who was at first determined to 
go and give him the lie in his teeth in the presence of his 
faithless loved one ; but I had somehow mastered the 
civilized idea that the presence of the young ladies conse- 
crated the place to the gentle purposes of peace, and I 
was able to restrain him. The young ladies lingered 
many minutes, and for what reason was a mystery ; when 
it occurred to me that Ama, perhaps, was to return to 
Stowe’s that evening, and might wish my escort, as it 
would be much out of the way for her friends to go home 
by that way. I was confirmed in this by her standing a 
little apart from her companions, as if to make my ap- 
proach easy. I had acted about as foolishly as boys do, 
all the week, furnishing the amplest justification of her 
scornful fling at me ; and I am sorry to say that my first 
impulse was to walk away from her, and I did turn to 
go. A bitter and better impulse controlled me; and I 
turned and approached her, and asked, “ Do you intend to 
return to Mrs. Stowe’s this evening? ” 

“I did,” she answered. 

‘ ‘ Permit me to ask if your friends are to go with you ; 
or is any one to attend you ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am afraid not, ’ ’ laughing. 

‘ ‘ If you will intrust yourself to a I will with pleas- 

ure keep the owls from scaring you,” I said. 

“ Thank you. I hardly have a^choice ; and, if it would 
not trouble you too much, I will accept your offer.” 

I did not make much. With a good- evening to her 
friends, she put her hand very frankly in my arm, when, 
bowing to them, we turned away. As we did so, Mr. 


144 


THE STOWES OF AUBUEN. 


Graham started off by the side of Milley, and Ed Rice 
attended Miss Craft. As we walked away, Ama clasped 
my arm with both hands, giving it a little shake. 

“You bad, bad boy ! you are just as bad as you can be. 
You know that you and the colonel are the only ones Mrs. 
Stowe will let me go with ; and she said she would send 
you over for me to-night, but I almost had to ask you, — 
ain’t you ashamed? And what has ailed you all the 
week? You’ve been as glum as a Turk. Milley didn’t 
give you the mitten. How queer you are ! And what did 
you mean just now by saying, if I would trust myself to 
a boy ? ’ ’ 

“You told me the other night that I was a boy, and 
didn’t know any thing about such things,” I answered 
coldly. 

“And you didn’t like it?” laughing with real mirth- 
fulness. “Ain’t you a boy? What do you know about 
it?” 

“ I am a boy. I don’t know any thing ; while you are 
a woman, and know much about such things.” I felt sad 
and bitter. 

“ You are really hurt,” she said very tenderly ; “ and I 
still don’t see why. If you are a boy, I am three years 
younger, and am only a very silly girl. I don’t under- 
stand it.” 

“ Ama, when a girl, at no matter what age, comes to be 
a woman, she is admired and sought by men. She can no 
longer care for a boy,” still very sad. 

“I never thought of that: none but a man would,” 
was her intuitive answer. She remained silent for many 
minutes. AYilson had gone on ahead of us ; and we en- 
tered the dense maple-wood, under which lay the pro- 
foundest shadow, with the silver urns of moonbeams 
poured through openings in the foliage here and there, 


SHOWS WHAT CAME OF IT. 


145 


and which were still lodging, slipping, and falling from 
leaf and bough to the ground below, filling the dark, 
silent wood with fantastic forms as of spirits gliding 
noiselessly through solemn shadow, and hiding away or 
disappearing. Something of the weii'd, phantom-haunted 
hour seemed to strike the consciousness of the child- 
woman, who clung to my arm, and pressed close to my 
side, throwing for a little way quick glances into the wood, 
and then bowing her head, and walking on, as if with 
closed eyes ; while something in her manner perhaps com- 
municated an impression as if for her the wood was 
haunted. When we emerged into the open pastime-land, 
she breathed as if relieved. 

“Oh, I am so glad! I never felt so before! I will 
never, never go through that wood again in the night. 
Never ! ” Her voice had a tremor to it. ’ 

“ I did not keep you from being frightened? I said. 

“The wood is haunted! Let us hasten from it,” she 
answered, quickening her step till we had passed over the 
ridge that threw the night-black wood below us. But she 
did not fully recover her old wonted gayety, in the room of 
which there was a tender, timid trustfulness that was very 
sweet to me. It was as if she said, “ You see, if I am a 
woman, I recognize and cling to you as a man.” 


146 


THE STOWES OF ATTBUEH. 


CHAPTER m. 

WHEREIN DAVE WILSON FOLLOWED mLLET^S ADVICE. 

June warmed into July, and July kindled to beaming 
August, which cooled to grateful September. ‘ In all the 
new grounds where forests had been felled in the winter 
and spring before, to be sown in wheat in the fall “ chop- 
pings,” as they were called, the brush had been burned 
off in a grand conflagration, faintly typical of a final 
burning ; groups of three or four swart and grimy loggers 
were busy with a yoke of oxen in piling up the blackened 
trunks of trees in innumerable heaps to be consumed 
by fire ; others were already dissolving in that element, 
with here and there a tender, going with his lever or^ 
poker, appearing and disappearing in the smoke, as with 
active hands he adjusted the burning wood so as to secure 
its most rapid consumption ; and the whole landscape was 
darkened with the smoke. 

In early September a new-comer into the valley had a 
raising to roll up the body of a log- cabin, which the set- 
tlers on the wild lands still built. It had from the earliest 
days been a sacred and pleasant duty to assist at the erec- 
tion of these structures ; and though as the country filled 
up the pleasure had diminished, the duty remained. The 
process of erection was of the simplest and most rudi- 
mental. A collection of sections of the trunks of trees 
of uniform size and length, as the dimensions of the 
structure might require, were hauled near the site, and 
placed equal numbers upon the four sides of the intended 


DAVE WILSON FOLLOWS MILLEY’s ADVICE. 147 

cabin, with a cleared place in the centre which it was to 
occupy. Two logs were placed on the ground, the begin- 
ning of two of the walls. At their ends, with a wood- 
man’s ax.e, a “saddle,” as it was called, was formed on 
the top of each. A log was next placed transversely at 
the ends of these, notched to fit the saddles, and turned 
down, thus forming the two other walls. These in turn 
were saddled, and so on until the walls were carried to_the 
requisite height. The only approach to mechanical skill 
requisite in these primitive structures was in the use of 
the axe — an implement and weapon to which the Ameri- 
can republic owes more than to any other known to its 
history. With an expert axeman for each corner, and a 
dozen strong-handed farmers, woodmen and loggers to 
roll up the logs, which was done on long, strong skids, the 
heavy work of a cabin was usually performed in two or 
three hours. 

On the present occasion Dave Wilson, the only man 
from his neighborhood, was present with his axe, and took 
a corner with his usual skill. He observed John Graham 
on the ground — whom he had not seen since the memora- 
ble night at the log church — with a number of his per- 
sonal friends. Dave, as was his usual way, went about 
his work, and, with hardly a word to any one, pursued it 
with such skill that there was no delay for him. He drank 
no whiskey, as was the general custom on such occasions. 
The walls were raised, and the roof “cobbled out,” as 
it was called, before sundown, when Dave descended 
from the building, and, placing his axe against a stump, 
he made his way to where John, with something of his 
usual swagger, was telling a story to a little knot of ad- 
mirers. Dave waited till he had finished, when, confront- 
ing him, he said in a cold, firm voice, and defiant manner : 
“ John Graham, you are a liar ! ” and, pausing a moment 


148 


THE STOWES OF AUBUEN. 


in the silence, he added, “ You have gone sneaking about 
lilvc a coward, among women and girls, and told a lie 
on me.” 

“Dave Wilson,” said the startled Graham, “what’s 
that you say ? ’ ’ 

“I say you are a liar. You know what that means, 
don’t you? ” very offensively. 

“ Who says I lie? ” a little bewildered. 

“ I do ! ” with marked emphasis. 

The usually cool blood of the York-state men Who 
heard this began to move, — in John apparently the wrong 
way. 

“ He called you a liar,” said Ed Rice with contempt to 
John. “ Eat him up : you’re big enough to.” 

“What’s that* you say?” said the younger Keyes, a 
powerful young man, to Wilson, pushing his way into the 
front of Dave. “ I don’t allow any man to call a friend 
of mine a liar. I take that up.” 

“I say he’s a liar,” said Dave," turning fiercely to the 
intruder, and gathering himself up like a panther for a 
spring. 

“Hold on there!” shouted Lance Craft, one of the 
most powerful and dangerous men on the Reserve, of his 
day, and then in his prime, leaping forward. “.Bill, 
what do you mean ? ’ ’ seizing Keyes by the shoulder, pull- 
ing him back. “This is' none o’ your quarrel. Form a 
ring and see fair play, boys. An’ the man o’ you who 
interferes will have to deal with me. Make a ring.” 
Everybody within hearing had now gathered about the 
principal parties, leaving space enough about them for 
the contest. 

“Thank you, Lance,” said Wilson with a sort of dig- 
nity. “There is no use for a ring. I say to his face 
that he’s a liar, and I’ll answer to him here or anywhere 
else, any time.” 


DAVE WILSON FOLLOWS MILLEY’s ADVICE. 149 

‘‘What’s all this about, boys?” asked Uncle Neat 
Hall, who now came around from the other side of the 
new building with some energy, followed by the preacher. 

“What’s goin’ on here? — Brother Craft,” to Lance, 
“I’m ashamed o’ you, encouragin’ the boys to fight here 
in this gospel light. — John Graham,” he said, taking the 
discomfited youth by the arm, “ go with me, and I’arn to 
fight the good fight. You somehow don’t seem anxious 
to fight carnally.” Uncle Neat was sometimes a little 
sarcastic for a Christian. 

“ No, that he hain’t. Brother Hall. The good fight, as 
you call it, is much more to his taste,” said Lance, with 
immense disgust. 

“Brother Craft, I’m ashamed o’ you,” said Uncle 
Neat good-humoredly, leading John away with an air that 
left it in doubt to those who knew him whether his exhor- 
tations to John were not ironical. 

“All right,” answered Lance. “Blessed are the 
peace-makers ! Take him off, so he sha’n’t hurt nobody.” 
Which was received with a laugh of derision. “Dave, 
give me your hand : you’re a Christian after my own 
heart. By George, boys, it takes some pluck to come 
over here alone and give a feller the lie in that style ! An’ 
if any trouble comes o’ this, count Lance Craft on Dave’s 
side. Boys, do you hear that? ” 

Dave again thanked him, and, shouldering his axe, 
started leisurely off across the fields and woods for home. 
This little incident made a good deal of talk. It had 
somehow come to be known that Milley had jilted Dave, 
and some said for John Graham, while others that it was 
on account of stories told by John ; in substance, that, 
while he and Dave were hunting deer on the Cuyahoga, 
with a jack by torchlight, Dave got so drunk that he fell 
out of the boat, and would have drowned had it not been 


I 


150 THE STOWES OF AUBURN. 

for John. All agreed that John was mixed up in it ; and 
a good many wished that Dave had thrashed him, unpopu- 
lar as that method of redressing grievances always was in 
that locality, even at that day. 

John was not much affected by this incident, notwith- 
standing his seeming lack of pluck : and it was said that 
his standing with Milley was as good as ever ; but then, 
as people said, there is no accounting for the tastes of 
girls, which is true. And his friends claimed that Dave’s 
only injury was that John had “ cut him out ; ” that was 
Dave’s cause of war; and that John would have flogged 
him in a minute had it not been for mixing Milley’ s name 
up in the quarrel ; an idea which, from its very strange- 
ness to that set, made it acceptable to some. And this 
was the light that John attempted to make it appear in to 
Milley herself, who doubtless appreciated it. 

Matters went on till the early winter, when an event 
occurred which deepened the interest now hanging about 
the names of these young people, and caused them to be 
much more widely heard of and J:alked about. It was 
during the earliest of one of the “ good hunting-snows ” 
of the season, so anxiously waited for and so eagerly im- 
proved by the deer-stalkers of that day, — “still-hunt- 
ing,” as they called it. John Graham, while chopping in 
the woods somewhat remote from the clearings, was shot 
at, as was said, while standing on a log in a moment’s ces- 
sation of labor, the bullet passing through one corner of a 
checked linen handkerchief, tied about his head in place 
of his hat. The wind of the bullet, as he claimed, 
knocked him nearly off the log. The next day Dave Wil- 
son was arrested by a constable and ix)sse, on a warrant 
sworn out by John on a charge of shooting at with intent 
to murder him ; and Dave was taken off before old Squire 
Joe Nash in Troy for trial. Nothing of this kind had 


DAVE WILSON FOLLOWS MILLEY’s ADVICE. 151 


ever occurred in that region before ; and it produced a 
wide excitement, and hundreds of men and boys hurried 
to hear the trial. Graham was the principal witness. 
He swore that Dave passed through the woods in sight a' 
few minutes before the gun was fired ; that he heard the 
report, found himself swaying off the log, and felt a 
shock as of a blow in the side of his head, and was quite 
deafened by a sharp sound ; that, on recovering, he took 
the handkerchief from his head, and found where the bul- 
let had passed through the corner of it, which hung just 
over one eai*. He produced the handkerchief with the 
hole in it, arranged in the form in which he wore it, 
put it oh, and showed just how near his head the bullet 
must have passed. He had his suspicions of Dave, went 
out to where he saw him pass, took his track, and followed 
it to where he stopped and apparently fired off his gun ; 
for sprinkled about on the snow were grains of powder 
where he had reloaded his rifle, which was in the exact 
range of the report of the gun. He was corroborated by 
others as to the probable presence of Wilson in that 
neighborhood at about the time of the. alleged shooting, 
followed by an unfair statement of what occurred between 
the paKies at the raising, to prove malice on Dave’s part. 
No evidence was produced for the defence. 

The young lawyer who defended Dave put John under 
a sharp cross-examination, and made him appear quite 
absurd and ridiculous ; but Dave was held to appear 
before the court of common pleas for the county of 
Geauga, in the sum of a thousand dollars, which old 
Stowe, who was on hand, very promptly gave. This had 
brought the matter between the young men to a pretty 
sharp issue. Dave, stung by Milley’s words, had fol- 
lowed her advice, and said to John that he was a liar ; 
and this was the present state of what followed. 


152 


THE STOWES OF AUBURN. 


John’s friends were sharp, bitter, and confident, though 
not numerous ; Have’s, bold, scoffing, and defiant ; while 
a good many not in the quarrel looked knowingly and 
kept silent when the shooting was named. 

“ Old Stowe,” with innumerable wraps, muffiers, great- 
coats, and overshoes, went off to Painesville and retained 
Reuben Hitchcock, and Benjamim Bissel, two eminent 
lawyers of that time, for the defence ; while he and old 
Ben Woodin were at open feud, maintaining an armed 
silence, in fact. 

“Them are horns of Habakkuk is too much for ’im,” 
was the complacent remark of Uncle Ben, in reference to 
Old Stowe. 

I left that region and sweet Ama Moore in September, 
cut nearly all the avocations of a farmer-boy, and co- 
quetted no more with carpentry. I dropped off from 
rifies and the woods, relinquished quite permanently boats, 
fishing, and Punderson’s pond, gave up reading poetry 
and pretty much the writing of verses. I had begun 
seriously to contemplate the problem of my own life, 
and was very busy with the Latin grammer, the cube root, 
and Euclid, under the stimulating tutorship of Dr. Lud- 
low. 

Away along in February he returned one day from a con- 
sultation, in the lower part of Auburn, over the case of 
Ama Moore. He said she could not recover, and wanted 
to see me. I forget under what strange name the doctors 
hid their knowledge of what ailed her. I had seen her 
but once since I returned home to my mother, in Septem- 
ber ; but in autumn I heard that she had been ill, but was 
recovering. The next day after the doctor’s return, I 
started over a fine snow track to walk the twelve or fifteen 
miles to see her. I found her in a neat little room, on a 
low, white- curtained bed, with her mother by her, faded, 


DAVE WILSON FOLLOWS MLLLEY’s ADVICE. 153 


shrunken, yet sweeter and lovelier, if possible, than in 
her heyday of beauty and health. She put out her two 
little thin hands to me, lately so plump and brown, closed 
her eyes, and remained silent for a moment, while the 
tears escaped from the closed lids, and there was a tremor 
of the pale lips. 

■ ‘ I am so glad you came ! I wanted so much to see 
you.’’ 

“I only heard of your illness last night, Ama, and I 
started this morning. I should have come before had 
I known of yoiu danger.” 

“ I know you would. All the ones I love have been to 
see me but you ; and the only thing I asked of Dr. Lud- 
low was to tell you.” Then followed some talk about her 
illness. “Do you remember the night — the last night 
we went up together from the Valley to Mr. Stowe’s? ” 

“ Very well.” 

“Do you remember what you said to me just before 
we entered the woods ? I had a warning that night. You 
had been cold to me, and I asked you why ; and you said 
that I had become a woman, while you were yet a boy ; 
and I thought to myself that you were three years older 
than I, and, if our liking should grow with us, that when 
I was twenty, you would be twenty-three ; and I could be 
very happy in waiting, if you liked me, and — then it all 
grew dark. Every thing stopped. I was never to be 
twenty. It was all to end very soon ; and the woods 
were full of spirits and ghosts, who seemed to wrap them- 
selves in the bright bits of moonlight, as in winding 
sheets and shrouds, and to flit and float about among the 
trees. I was chilled and frightened. I closed my eyes, 
and clung to your arm till I felt the light through my eye- 
lids and knew we were out. That was my warning.” ‘ 

‘ ‘ I reinember it very well. I thought then that you 


154 


THE STOWES OF AUBUKN. 


closed your eyes ; and you said, as we came out, the wood 
was- haunted.” 

“We never went there since,” she said. “I would 
never go through that wood again, even in the day-time. 
I am not afraid of it now. I’ve seen all the spirits in my 
dreams since. They are sweet and lovely, and I shall be 
with them soon. It was very hard for me at first to give 
every thing up.” And then some very tender and impres- 
sive words for me, as coming from the portals of the 
Unseen. I was much more affected than was she. 

‘ ‘ What a lovely summer this was ! I am very glad to 
have lived it, and I am very glad that I met you. I like 
you very much, and differently from what I do anybody 
- else,” she said very sweetly. . 

She was very weak ; and I had been with her to near 
the close of the day, talking little short, detached talks. 
Her mother, I saw, wanted I should leave her. I was 
going four or five miles farther through the Mantua woods, 
to my old home at the Harmon’s. I promised, that, at the 
farthest, I would retmm on the second day after. As I 
arose to go, she put up her hands. 

“Kiss me this once: you never did. My mother is 
here. It is right.” I put my lips to hers, leaving my 
tears on her wan face. With a man’s choking sensation 
in my throat, I went silently away. 

On my return next day, about three in the afternoon, 
the house was filled with tender women and girls, who had 
just dressed her for the grave. She died an hour after I 
left her. I saw her in her stainless robes, and was per- 
mitted to place in her hand on her bosom a little woven 
spray of white roses and buds that Sarah Harmon cut from 
her winter trees, and made up for me to carry to her. 


THE HORN OF THE WICKED IS PUT DOWN. 155 


CHAPTER lY. 

IN WHICH THE HORN OF THE WICKED IS PUT DOWN, AS 
THE READER EXPECTS. 

At the March term of the court, Dave was indicted for 
shooting at John Graham with intent to kill. All the wit- 
nesses on both sides were in attendance ; and great excite- 
ment prevailed through the adjoining parts of Newbury, 
Auburn, and Troy. For some reason the case was not 
tried, — for want of time, the Graham party said ; for 
want of disposition on the part of the prosecution was the 
reason given by the friends of Wilson. 

I had drifted out of the interest which I once felt in 
these parties, and was hard at work in my new field, when, 
meeting my friend Dan Punderson at the post-office one 
day along in June, he proposed bass-fishing on the pond, 
and promised to be at the outlet the next morning with 
minnows, &c., and would pull the boat for me. My new 
habit of virtue and abstinence was not quite formed, and 
I complied very cheerfully. The pond is a body of deep, 
pure water, in the bosom of beautiful hills about a mile 
and a half in length, by a half-mile in width, nearly di- 
vided by a wooded island lying against the east side and 
about two-thirds of the way from the outlet at the south 
end, north. It was then nearly surrounded by forest, and 
one of those lovely things in nature which fix themselves 
in the memory and affections of one familiar as I was 
with it. 

I don’t remember the success of that forenoon. We 


156 


THE STOWES OF AUBUEH. 


worked slowly north, near the western shore, and so on 
around by the upper end, down the east side, and around 
west of the island. After passing that, one has a full 
view of the lower and larger part of the pond ; and we 
discovered at Barker’s landing, on the east side, a hard, 
smooth, white beach under grand old oaks and chestnuts, 
a gay throng of men and boys, matrons and maidens, 
whose flitting figures, and the draperies of the women under 
the summer noon sun against the leafy background, made 
a beautiful picture of life, warmth, and color. The land- 
ing took its name ‘from a Cjuaint old man, himself a char- 
acter, who dwelt near it on the State road. It was the 
most accessible as well as the most attractive point on the 
shores of the pond, and was even then a place of resort 
for festive occasions, picnics, and holidays. Dan sug- 
gested that they were a party from Auburn ; as he had 
heard that.one was coming up from the Corners and State 
road, and which was to. bring up a sail-boat which we saw 
running and tacking in the light air that at times strongly 
ruffled the water’s surface. We floated and fished alons: 
down, steering wide of the landing, but going near enough 
to recognize such of the party as we knew. There were 
the two younger Stowes, their wives, Dave Wilson, and 
several from the Corners, among whom I saw Milley ; and 
we passed John Graham, with one or two of the Staffords 
in the sail-boat, which they worked very awkwardly, not 
to say lubberly. The party was large and somewhat pro- 
miscuous, as it must be to include Dave Wilson and John 
Graham, and their friends. I understood afterward that 
it was started by Harrington, a well-known merchant at 
the Corners, to get the two parties out together, with the 
romantic idea of producing a better state of feeling among 
them. We drifted slowly along, exchanging words with 
those we knew, were invited to land, and had turned our 


THE HOEN OF THE WICKED IS PUT DOWN. 157 


boat shoreward, just below the landing, when a loud, 
mingled cry of alarm, shout, and scream drew our atten- 
tion back. On turning, we saw the sail-boat capsized, 
with two of the crew hanging to it, while the third, some 
yards from it then, was sinking. Dan sent our light shal- 
lop about to their aid. The sinking man’s head appeared 
once, when the cry was raised that John Graham was 
drowning. The whole thing was so sudden that even cool 
men stood a moment as if off their balance. At the cry 
of the name of John Graham, a man from under the trees 
sprang down the little slope, bounded across the beach 
like a deer, dashed into the water, which was shoal for 
twenty or thirty feet, when the bottom fell suddenly away 
to a great depth. It was only just off the edge of this 
steep a few yards, that the luckless Graham sank. As the 
rescuer reached the margin of this precipice, he leaped his 
full length above the surface, and with his arms extended 
and the inner edges of his hands touching beyond his 
head, describing a beautiful curve, he disappeared head- 
long in the deep water, some three or four yards from the 
ground which he left, and scarcely disturbing the surface 
through which he clove his way. My God ! I thought 
he never would appear again. An absolute silence for a 
half-minute, in which the very breeze held its breath. 
Our boat, under the impetus it had received, was already 
near the place, when suddenly the water was broken up 
just ahead of us, and the diver put his face up, breathed, 
and brought up the form of the drowning man. I was 
already in reach of him, and drew him up, and partly over 
the gunwale of our boat. A moment and he was where 
strong arms lifted and carried him to the sands. The gal- 
lant rescuer, with a stroke or two, gained the shoal water, 
and rising to his feet, I recognized Dave Wilson. He 
had rescued his enemy. Something of the nobleness of 


158 


THE STOWES OF AUBIJEH. 


the act was instantly recognized, and a spontaneous shout 
hailed him as he landed. Dr. Ludlow, who that spring- 
removed to the Corners, was also present, and took imme- 
diate possession of the rescued man, who, although un- 
conscious, gave unmistakable signs of life, and was 
without great trouble restored. 

It was still supposed by many that Milley preferred 
John, if she was not engaged to him, but two or three, 
who were cool enough to observe her conduct in these try- 
ing moments, saw that she evinced no unusual interest in 
him : on the contrary, she ran into the water, and was the 
first to meet Dave as he landed. She was seen to eagerly 
extend her hands to him, and those nearest heard her fer- 
vently say, as if to herself, ‘ ‘ Thank God ! ’ ’ For an in- 
stant Dave saw something wonderful in her eyes. Indeed, 
the whole womankind must be a wonder when one not quite 
nineteen has the power, by a mere look and one hand- 
touch, to annihilate the hardness, bitterness, and misery of 
n, whole year of a man’s life, change all his thoughts, and 
reverse the apparent tendency of his fortune. From that 
half-instant’s meeting she glided away through the throng 
like a shadow, while he leaped upon the dry beach almost 
with a shout. Later, when he escaped from the others, 
he ran his eyes over and through the noisy and excited 
groups without seeing her. 

He lingered a minute in vain, and started for his horse, 
to gallop to Parker’s tavern, a mile away to the south, for 
a change of garments. As he was passing along the nar- 
row path, through the close alders, at a little turn in it he 
met the innocent Milley returning from — where ? 

“O Dave, I do so want to see you! ” she said in a 
low but melodious voice. 

“ Turn and walk with me,” said the delighted youth. 

“ Not here and now. I am too much excited. There 


THE HORN- OF THE WICKED IS PUT DOWN. 159 


are too many eyes and ears here ; come to me to-night, ’ ’ 
said the blushing girl, with a tone and look which meant 
more than the words, liberal as they were. 

“ I will,” eagerly. “ Where? ” A pause. 

“ I will be at Alvirus Stowe’s just at dark : she is kind 
to me. I must go now, David,” with a sweet glance. 

“ Without fail, Milley.” She passed him rapidly, and 
a moment later, curiously enough, left the path, and made 
her way back to the landing through the thick bush which 
gi’ew on that side of it ; while the happy and exultant 
Wilson went on his spirited young horse bounding over 
the Newbury hills, southward, to Parker’s. 

The accident broke up the party. Graham was very 
soon carried to old man Barker’s cabin, not a hundred 
yards distant, and before mid-afternoon the little beach 
was a solitude. The whole party were on their way south 
to their homes, all profoundly impressed with the strange 
turn given to the course of the incidents of this little his- 
tory ; and everybody wondered what would happen next. 
Few had the hardihood to express any faith in the story 
that Dave had ever attempted John’s life; while many, 
quite in accord with the religious faith of the day and re- 
gion, did not hesitate to declare that it was a manifest 
interposition of Providence, as a punishment and humilia- 
tion of John Graham, and a vindication and uplifting of 
Dave Wilson, whose conduct and exploit, the more they 
were scanned, the more worthy and admirable they seemed. 
The story which John had told of Dave’s falling into the 
Cuyahoga when drunk was specially called to mind, and 
now he had been saved from drowning by this very Dave. 

“ How Milley must feel now ! Poor girl, I really pity 
her,” said one woman. Milley had always been quite a 
favorite, though called proud. 

'“Didn’t you notice how excited she seemed? And 
they say she rushed into the water to meet Dave Wilson.” 


160 


THE STOWES OF AUBURN. 


“ I don’t wonder at it,” from another. 

“Nor I,” said a third. “I would go into the Dead 
Sea for such a man ! ’ ’ And nobody reproved her for the 
speech. 

“ I wonder what old Ben Woodin will say now ! ” ex- 
claimed a man to Harrington. “ And what do you sup- 
pose will become of the case against Dave ? ’ ’ 

“It will be dismissed, of com'se. If Graham appears, 
and tells that silly story against him now, we shall know 
why he was not drowned to-day. Of course he can’t, and 
our party comes out better than it might. After all, while 
most of the evil and all the deviltry of this world comes 
by design, the good which happens is accidental.” Har- 
rington was a bit of a philosopher, and went on in silent 
thought. 

To two of the party the day tarried long and the night 
lingered away. It came finally. In its gloaming a lithe, 
tall, girlish figure glided up the solitary highway from the 
Corners. Just north of Uncle Neat Hall’s, a man stepped 
from the margin toward her, as if he had awaited her 
approach. 

“ Oh ! you almost scared me, David,” said Milley, in a 
pretty affectation of alarm, as she permitted him to come 
to her side. “What must you think of me? What will 
folks say if they know I came to meet you, David?” as 
if anxious. 

“ Say ! ” said the surprised David, “ I don’t care what 
they say,” decidedly. 

“ Not on my account, David? Would not you care if 
I was thought illy of ? ” 

‘ ‘ Who can think that ? ’ ’ really puzzled and a little dis- 
appointed. He had a half thought of rushing to her, and 
putting his arms about her, as he had read of in stories ; 
and she was so shy and scrupulously afraid of what would 
be said. 


THE HOEH OF THE WICKED IS PUT DOWK. 161 

‘ ‘ I shall not care much, if you do not misunderstand 
me,” she said. 

“ Misunderstand you? ” more puzzled. 

“ Let us go on, and go into Mrs. Stowe’s,” said the girl, 
quite frightened. 

Dave turned ; and they walked on in silence, — he in 
almost a state of collapse, so unlike what he had hoped, 
had expected, was she. 

They entered the front-door (not the rule in the coun- 
try) , and found the parlor empty, hut lighted. 

“David,” said the girl, in a deep, earnest voice, un- 
winding from her head a muffling cloud of soft, white 
stuff, “ David, you have done a great thing to-da3^ You 
have saved the life of your enemy. You are so good and 
so generous that I want to thank you.” 

‘ ‘ Thank me ! ” in amazement. 

‘ ‘ And ask you to forgive me for my wicked words to 
you.” 

‘ ‘ Oh ! ” in bewilderment. 

“Do you remember the last time we were together 
coming from thfe Yalley? ” 

‘ ‘ Do you think I would forget that, Milley ? ’ ’ 

“You said that this John had told a story on you ; and 
I said you had better say that to him.” 

“ Yes, and I did say it to him.” 

‘ ‘ And because I was wicked and foolish enough to tell 
you too ; and what an awful thing came of it ! ” 

“Do you believe that I stole upon him in the woods, 
and shot at him as I would at a skunk in its hole, and 
missed him too ? O Milley ! ’ ’ 

“ David, how can you be so cruel ! You know I never 
believed a word of it — of any of these stories about you. 
Not a whisper,” with emphasis. 

“ Then what can you think of this infernal ” — 


162 


THE STOWES OF AUBURN. 


‘‘David,” interrupting him with the force of her hand 
on his arm, “ you saved his life. He should be sacred to 
you,” earnestly. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Sacred to you ’ ! I pulled him out of the water for 
you,” not equal to the more elevated soul of the woman. 
“ He would have sent me to the penitentiary, yet his little 
finger is dearer to you than ’ ’ — 

“Speak it, David: I deserve it all,” as he hesitated. 
“ You will some time know how cruel you are. You saved 
his life, but you will not spare me.” Tears were in her 
eyes, and tears were in her voice. ^ 

“ What would you have, Milley?” in a dejected tone, 
and much softened. , 

‘ ‘ I wanted to thank you for showing you are the noble 
man I, your friends, all knew you were ; and I wanted 
you should forgive me for my speech.” 

‘ ‘ Is that all I had a right to expect from your coming ? 
I begin to see what a fool I am,” bitterly. 

“ I don’t know what you expected. You could not help 
misconstruing my foolish conduct in seeking you. You 
are surely noble enough to be generous to a woman ; or 
cannot a man be generous to a woman ? There is some- 
thing more I want to say. I had promised grandfather 
Woodin not to receive any attention from you, or to see 
you alone. I supposed this would not last long, and we 
should get over it ; and, when I gave you to understand 
that my wish was what I was ordered to do, I told you a 
wicked lie. Can you forgive me this too, David?” wist- 
fully, and with the color deepening on cheek and lip. 

“If it was not true, it was wicked, Milley,” brighten- 
ing ; ‘ ‘ for a more wretched boy has not lived than I 
since that night.” 

“ I am very sorry, David. Will you forgive me? ” 

“Do you lilve me, Milley ? ” 


THE HORN OF THE WICKED IS PUT DOWN. 163 


“You never told me that you liked me, David, till that 
night.” - 

“You knew I did, as well as a young feller could like 
a girl.” 

“ Still a girl likes to have things said to her,” turning 
her face away. 

A pause. “ Will you forgive me? ” very faint and low. 

‘ ‘ Do you like me ? ” 

Like was about the strongest word of the timid, unso- 
phisticated lover of that day on the Reserve. Young 
men never heard of flirtations, and knew nothing of the 
meaningless use of the words of passion and profound 
emotion. The word “ love ” was as awful and sacred to 
a young lover almost as the name of his Creator, and he 
dared not use it. 

“ Do you like me, Milley? Oh, that is not the word ! ” 
he cried, moved to the depths of a manly nature, neither 
weak nor shallow. “ I love you, Milley, — I love you from 
my soul ! I want to carry you in my arms, against my 
heart, all through 3^our life. I want you for my own true 
wife.” His voice, his form, trembled with the depth and 
fervor of his passion, and he extended his hand to her. 

With her face bent down and away from him, she placed 
her right hand in his, and remained silent. His other 
hand stole around the slender waist. 

“Do you love me, Milley? ” 

“You have my hand. Does not that mean all?” in 
a very little voice. 

“Still a boy likes to have things said to him,” in a 
voice a good deal like hers. “ Will you be my wife? ” 

“ I do love you — I always did. I will be your true 
wife so long as I live,” turning suddenly to him ; and the 
last words came from the opening of his vest. He drew 
her (piite to himself, and found a part of one cheek ex- 
posed to his lips. She withheld her own. 


164 


THE STOWES OF AUBURN. . ^ 


‘ ‘ Have you forgiven me ? ’ ’ from the vest. 

“ What do you ask? I can’t hear you.” 

“ Have you forgiven me? ” a little plainer. 

A light tap upon the door, and Milley, with flushing 
color, sprang to it. 

“ Uncle Ben and your grandmother are here,” said Mrs. 
Stowe, from the outside. The door was opened. 

“ Let them come in,” said Milley. “ I told grandma I 
was coming to meet David. — You have nothing to fear, 
dear, I am yours now,” she said, going loyally to his side. 

“Wal, wal, wal,” grumbled Uncle Ben, as he came 
shuffling along the corridor. “Where are the runaways?” 
as he entered the parlor-door. “Dave Wilson, you’re a 
rale Christian hero ! You saved the life of your wost 
inemy — yes, only inemy. Give me yer hand. .You’ve 
got ’er, and you shall keep ’er ; and you shall be married 
from her old grandfather’s house. There, there ! ” nearly 
breaking down, as his wife and Mrs. Stowe rushed to 
Milley. “Wal, wal,” wiping his blind eye, “I was to 
blame. The old man was a leetle wrong, I own that. 
It was owin’ to them ’ere pesky horns o’ Habakkuk.” 

“An’ the horns o’ the wicked shall be put down,” 
sharply croaked out a thin, quavering voice, as Old Stowe 
tottered his blinking way into the room. 

“ Is that you, you old Univarsalar? ” called Uncle Ben, 
going toward him. 

“ Yis, you ole obstinate Redemptioner. You see, he’s 
•gotten ’er, and it’s all the work o’ the univarsal love o’ 
God. What do you say to that? As St. Paul says in 
the ” — 

“Wal, wal, mebby so, mebby so. I’ll take that pint 
up to-morrer.” 

. “ No, you sha’n’t, not till after this wedding is over,” 
said Mrs. Stowe, with good-natured decision. 


THE HORN OF THE WICKED IS PUT DOWN. 165 

“I’ll take a bout with you,” said Old Stowe. “Oh 
the blessed things ! ” groping towards the happy, teary 
lovers. “How rich the airth is in love! ‘Little chil- 
dren, love one another.’ ” 

“David,” said Uncle Ben, “you must go home with 
Milley to-night. I want ye under my roof. The gal 
won’t come to ye without somethin’ to begin the house 
on. I’m not rich, but she’ll have a good settin’ out. 

“I know she will, brother Woodin,” said the elder 
Stowe ; “ and I here pledge, that, for every dollar ye gin 
her. I’ll put into ’er hand two dollars in silver. Come, 
now.” 

“That’s ginrous,” responded Uncle Ben. “Come, 
wife: we’re old, and we’ll be goin’. The children can 
come when they git ready : they’ll walk faster ’n we.” 

“I guess they’ll walk wonderful fast to-night, grand- 
’ther, now they have a right to be alone, and take 
their time,” answered the appreciative old lady. “Take 
yer time, children, the door’ll be open : you have a good 
deal to tell one another.” 

^ Wiser in her maidenly instinct than the elder woman\ 
[ with her life’s experience, Milley did not permit herself 
^\and her lover the sweet license of a midsummer’s night / 
'dingering. She did not doubt him, or distrust herself, nor 
was she a prude. In her conscience she did not think it 
was right for even plighted youth and maiden to linger 
long, or be out late by the way. 

And, starting but a few -minutes after the elders, the 
young people reached the home of the Woodins, and en- 
tered it with them. It was a little “ lateish ” when Dave 
took leave that night ; and as he stood on the doorstep, 
with a hand of Milley in his, — 

“ Dave,” she said, bending toward him from her higher 
perch in the. doorway, laying her hand on his shoulder, — 

“ David, .you have not forgiven me yet.” 


166 


THE STOWES OF AUBUEN. 


“ Oh ! we had forgotten that, hadn’t we? ” very brightly, 
and willing to discuss it to any length. 

“ I had not,” she said. 

“ Will you kiss me? ” asked he caressingly. 

‘ ‘ A pardon should not be purchased, nor kisses sold • 
love should trust love,” was the logical answer. 

“Nor is there any thing for love to pardon to love,” 
was his response. 

‘ ‘ Do you forgive me ? ” 

“ With my whole heart and soul, might and mind.” 

She bent fondly to him, and put' her full, ripe lips to his 
with, “ Good-night, and God go with you ! ” 

“ Good-night.” And he went out into the warm, mys- 
terious night, beaming with the consciousness of a lover’s 
first kiss that inspires while it blesses. 

The next morning Old Stowe went pottering and spit- 
ting down the road towards Auburn Corners, and Uncle 
Ben Woodin was not seen at his usual haunts during the 
day. A wag afterwards told a story, about hearing, on 
that day, some unusual droning sounds in the rear of a 
deserted cooper’s shop which stood in a secluded place, 
and how he effected an entrance into it, where he could 
easily hear the grum, muffled, good-natured semi-growls 
of Uncle Ben, interspersed with the broken cackle of Old 
Stowe in a subdued key, like the undertones of a disturbed 
bumble-bees’ nest. As he told the story, these venerable 
boys at sundown left the place of assignation, one going 
one way, and one the other ; that soon after they met in 
Harrington’s store, and exchanged eharacteristic greet- 
ings, as if they had not met for a month, yet with some- 
thing of the conscious manner of two urchins fresh from 
robbing an apple-tree. For the truth of this I will not 
vouch. . It has an air of eminent probability. The elder 
Stowe on his way home called at Alvirus’s, and gave a 
rather confused account of how he spent the day. 


THE HOEN OF THE WICKED IS PUT DOWN. 167 

At the ensuing term of the court, the case of the State 
of Ohio vs. David Wilson was dismissed. The prosecut- 
ing attorney said at the time, that the principal witness 
had become satisfied that the shooting was wholly un- 
intentional, while a good many were satisfied that there 
was even no accidental discharge, which came to be the 
accepted version of the transaction. Graham that fall 
went to Michigan, which was the last I heard of him. 

Dave failed in his effort to induce Milley to fix the wed- 
ding-day for New Year’s. He pleaded hard for the first 
of March, saying he wanted to make sugar on his new 
' place. Milley from the first named the next May Day, 
for which she gave a great many wise, sweet, and, of 
course, womanly reasons. She always thought, that, if 
she was ever married, it should be on the first day of May. 
She had never changed her mind. It was unreasonable 
to ask her to be married before that time ; and, though 
Dave ought to be willing to wait a year longer, she would 
not compel hun to. 

The land which he purchased had at that time a small 
clearing and a snug cabin on it. The building was made 
as neat as good fioors, windows, and doors could render it ; 
and the colonel put up a frame adjoining it, with a roomy 
parlor, bed-room, and closet, which were all complete, and 
quite to the mind of the young housewife, who made the 
premises many visits in the mean time with Dave. 

The loves of Dave and Milley ran smoothly to the in- 
evitable day, which the bride met with the resignation and 
devotion of her heroic sex. 

The Rev. Mr. Witter of Burton officiated on the happy 
occasion ; and those grim old Philistines, Old Stowe and 
Uncle Ben Woodin, permitted him to come and go, with- 
out even a growl or a snarl, — “ an’ him a college-larnt- 
Prespiterian,” as was remarked by a neighbor of theirs 
at the miracle of his escape. 


168 


THE STOWES OF AUBUEN. 


Mrs. Alvirus Stowe made a party for the wedded lovers, 
— receptions had not then been invented, — and the Val- 
ley band, whose leading instrument was a horse-fiddle, for 
some reason never explained, failed to serenade them ; 
and the next day they took possession of their new home. 


LU PETTENGILL’S PUNISHMENT. 


CHAPTER I. 

Of all the traders and traffickers, Joe Slyter was es- 
teemed the shai*i)est in all the region of Southern Geauga. 
Horses were his favorite commodities for barter ; but 
cattle, sheep, pigs, wagons, every thing, from a cow to a 
hoe-handle, known or recognized among men as property, 
were alike the subjects of his commercial enterprise. 
Clocks, and especially watches, were dealt in extensively. 
Peltries, which usually figure in the trade of a rude people 
holding a wilderness country, also received his attention. 
.But horses, in wffiich his speeial skill and virtue found 
their best field, were dearer to his heart as objects of 
dicker than any thing else known to him. 

One exception there was, — Uncle Pettengill, who, when 
he put forth his best efforts, was supposed to be more 
than a match for Joe Slyter. Older and less active, still, 
as a horse- jockey, popular estimate ranked him as quite 
the first, especially since a notable trade made between the 
two. It was said that an exchange of horses once took 
place between these masters, in which Joe gave Uncle Pet 
a yoke of two-year-old steers as the difference in value, 
and that, upon the completion of the bargain, the old man 
made a present of the horse he had received, back to Joe. 

169 


170 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


This was the hardest cut Slyter ever received, and there 
was no end of the rigs run on him for this sore discom- 
fiture. 

“ Ye see,’’ said Uncle Pet, in his dry, quiet way, with 
his eyes half, closed, “ airey one o’ them bosses sepa- 
rately was wuth nothin’, an’ both together was wuth 
less than one on ’em alone. Bullock had offered me three 
dollars' in deerskins for mine, to carry his traps inter the 
woods that fall ; but I had too much respect for ole’ age 
to make wolf-bait on ’im, an’ he wouldn’t a’ made much 
nuther. An’ then I didn’t want no deerskins, an’ winter 
was cornin’ on, an’ I always Idnder wanted to do suthin 
nice for Joe, an’ so I let him have both bosses, you see.” 

Many were the prophesies of the ways by which Joe 
would retrieve his fame and fortune. Three or four years 
elapsed since Uncle Pettengill had floated on with the slug- 
gish tide of that early day of “ truck and dicker,” without 
again encountering Joe in a commercial transaction. They 
finally met one afternoon at Gardner’s store, by accident 
so far as Pettengill was concerned. He was over there 
doing a little trading with a hoi'se and wagon, and Lu 
came over with him. While there, Joe came along, riding 
one horse, and leading another. He stopped, when a 
crowd gathered about them, and he stumped Uncle Pet 
for a trade. 

On receiving this challenge. Uncle Pet gathered up his 
tall, rather ungainly form, sauntered out leisurely, and 
run his half-shut eyes over the round, naggish little mare 
which Joe led, and offered in trade. The old man pushed 
her about, pointed to his own horee, said he was open for 
a swop, secured a bit of wood from a pine box, drew out 
and opened a well-known keen jack-knife, seated himself 
on the edge of the platform in front of the store, surveyed 
his bit of wood for a moment thoughtfully, as if estimating 


LU pettengill’s pukishment. 


171 


its capabilities, and awaited the onset of his enemy quite 
unconcernedly. 

, Joe made a careful examination of the property pointed 
out to him, and approached his cool and wary opponent 
with the prompt manner of a challenger bound to make an 
effort. 

I do not propose to report the sayings — the encounter of 
the sly, shrewd wits — of these masters of horse cant and 
slang of the old school. Uncle Pet, with the skill of a 
Yankee whittler, proceeded to reduce his bit of pine to 
the proper dimensions, preparatory to giving it some defi- 
nite shape, which would be determined by the impending 
contest. He occasionally made a remark, which the eager 
listeners picked up and repeated, as if they contained 
matter of great pith. He generally permitted the other 
side to monopolize the conversation. Once, one end of 
his wooden billet took from his fashioning knife the form 
of the bowl of a pipe, or that of an Indian tomahawk, 
but it did not so far approach completion as to indicate 
which, if either, was in the artist’s mind. 

Joe ably expatiated on the defects of the horse he 
hoped to receive, which in his hands was made to appear 
as most undesirable property. “You see. Uncle Pet,” 
he continued, “he’s a coarse-made brute, coarse-haired 
and coarse-grained. His head now — jess look at that 
are head ! It is four foot long ! Such a boss never 
knows nothin’.” 

“He ain’t a knowin’ hoss, Joe, that’s so,” was the 
acquiescing answer. “ He don’t know much more’n some 
men I’ve seen, and that makes a fool of a hoss ; an I’d 
be glad to get rid on ’irn.” 

Joe also expended much time and eloquence on the 
good qualities of his mare, giving her imaginary pedigree 
and personal history, and dwelt effectively on her many 


172 


LU PETTENGILL’S PUNTSmiENT. 


virtues and excelleuces. Uncle Pet sat whittling through 
it all, as if not hearing the panegyric. Finally, without 
looking up, he inquired her age. 

“ Nine year old the eleventh day o’ last May,” was the 
prompt answer, and the fortunate owner proceeded to for- 
tify this declaration with a narrative of many particulars 
which made it entirely certain. As Uncle Pet looked up 
with a smile of incredulity, Joe asked, with spirit, if he 
doubted his word. 

“Joe Slyter waan’t born when that mare was a colt,” 
remarked Uncle Pet to those about him, without noticing 
Joe’s question. 

“Was she the mother of Wolf-bait?” asked Alf Lee, 
one of the interested listeners. 

“ She’s too old for that,” was Uncle Pet’s reply. “ If 
that ’ere mare was a man, an’ not a boss, she would not 
have to work no poll-tax on the highways. You can’t 
make a man pay arter he’s sixty.” When the laugh sub- 
sided, he tm’ued to Joe, and continued, “I thought I’d 
seen the last o’ that critter. When John Brewer an’ I 
moved into this town, nigh on to twenty year ago, I 
bought that ’ere same mare on the ‘ Holland Perchis,’ an’ 
I drove ’er in here. She was old then. I kep’ ’er seven 
or eight year, an’ let Bildad Bradley have ’er, and he 
turned her into Thorndyke for land, an’ that was ten year 
ago. There’s a little bunch on the inside of ’er off fore- 
foot, that you can tell ’er by, where she got burnt in a fire- 
bed. A dozen men round ’ere knows ’er. I should want 
a little more boot than my hoss is wutli.” 

Once or twice before this point, a young girl had come 
out of the store, and made her way near the elder trader, 
and observed him for a moment, and then went back with- 
out a word. She seemed to be well known to most of 
those present, many of whom nodded to her, with “ Good- 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 173 

da}^, Lu ; ” while others regarded her with meaning but 
kindly looks. 

Tall, slender, lithe, of no particular shape, as she was 
dressed, she was, nevertheless, one to strike the atten- 
tion of most beholders. She had a way of half closing 
her large hazel eyes a little like her father ; while the wide- 
arching brows, delicate and exquisitely- cut features of the 
face, and the world of luxuriant dark hair (always in a 
state of insubordination), joined with extreme youth, an 
air of freedom and spirit, with a certain winsome grace of 
movement, were apt to make her a noticeable and an 
attractive object wherever she appeared. She was now 
seventeen, an only child ; and her mother, whose good 
looks she inherited, had been dead twelve or fifteen years. 

Her father’s housekeeper, and much of the time his sole 
companion, growing up without restraint, she developed 
into a free romp, full of audacious spirit, and yet a 
thorough woman in her instincts, and always redeeming 
her wild freaks by the girlish grace and yidivete which 
accompanied them. Just now, by her own leading, she 
was escaping from the tomboy period, of which she was a 
perfect specimen, to one of more decided womanliness, 
which she was touching upon very naturally. Her father 
was a well-to-do farmer, had been a hunter, a horse- 
trader, and trafficker generally. With little female com- 
panionship, save the wife of the man who worked her 
father’s farm, Lu saw much of the rude men of that 
day, and felt no embarrassment in their company. It 
was quite usual for her to find herself smTounded by 
admiring youths and young men, while their seniors were 
becoming aware of her claims as a woman. The matrons 
regarded poor Lu with grave apprehension. They saw 
little in her to commend, and, after all, very little that 
they could seriously condemn. They knew their sons 


174 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


were following her, and were obliged to content them- 
selves with warning their daughters not to imitate her 
style and manner, which they would have found difficult, 
and they contemplated her future with doubt and misgiv- 
ing. So gay and bright-spirited, so innocent and guileless, 
so obliging and kindly was she, that everybody liked her. 
Yet there was such a wilfulness and independence 
of temper in her, that no one felt at liberty to approach 
her with council or admonition, and she was maturing 
carelessly and free, as unconscious that possible harm 
could lie in wait for her as if growing up in the seclusion 
of a nunnery ; and she was in scarcely more danger. The 
youths and young men who had grown up with her in the 
diminishing forests had imbibed much the same notions 
of primitive innocence, and very few men who met Lu 
l^ettengill would ever have thought of ill in connection 
with her. 

Indeed, there is a sort of masculine instinctive impres- 
sion that the seemingly free and reckless girl is more diffi- 
cult of approach than the demure and shy. 

When Lu came out of the store the .second time, she 
was joined by Alf Lee, who asked her, “Are you going 
to Webster’s to-night, Lucille?” 

“I don’t know,” she answered. “ What is it to be? ” 

“ Well, they call it a paring-bee, but have made a good 
deal of preparation, and have invited some from quite a 
distanee. There will be a dance, and I shall play for ’em. 
Ed Barns will be there, I understand, and perhaps his 
sister.” 

“ Ed Barns and his sister ! Oh, my ! I wonder if they 
will ! They are said to be the highest kind, from a city 
‘ down country ’ somewhere,” said Lu with vivacity. 

“ Did you never see Ed, Lu? ” 

“I never have. He is something quite dreadful, I 
s’pose? ” 


LU pettengill's punishment. 175 

“ No. You’ll like him, Lu. He is a real gentleman ; 
and they are never stuck up, you know.” 

“How should I know, Alf? He must be something 
strange.” 

“ He is — for Newbury and Auburn. His sister and 
cousin belong to the church. All the Barnses are Baptists 
but Ed. They came in last spring. The old deacon is 
rich. He bought all the land from Bridge Creek to Bain- 
bridge.” 

Lu was not much interested in this statement. 

“ I would like to go,” she said, speaking of the party; 
“ but I don’t know as any our way -were hmted but me.”^ 

“I’ll tell you how you can go. Dan Punderson is 
going in his new^ carriage, and I am going with him. 
We’ll take two or three of the State Road girls, and come 
around for you. I was gouig to propose this to you. 
What do you say ? ” 

“Oh, that’ll be just splendid!” clasping her hands in 
an ecstasy. ‘ ‘ Thank you, Alf ! I must take father home 
at once,” she said in answer. 

“ He liain’t finished Joe Slyter and his trade yet.” 

“ Why, Alf, he has no idea of a trade ! ” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“ You can always tell by his whittlin’. He is now only 
just running this Mr. Slyter. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ How can you tell by his whittlin’ ? ’ ’ 

“ Why, there are two or three things he always makes, 
— a pipe, a tomahawk, a gun, and a scalpin’-knife. He’ll 
begin one of these, and finish it with his trade. Well, he 
began one of them, and gave it up. He is just making 
nothing now.” They turned to the traders just as her 
father had finished his history of Joe’s mare. Lu ap- 
proached her father, took the diminished bit of wood from 
his hand, examined it, and, threw it into the highway with 


176 


Lxj pettengill’s punishment. 


a little air. “Father, it is most night, and we must go 
home,” she said quite decisively. 

The act and words produced a laugh, and remarks such 
as “ Lu knows ! ” “ She’s all right ! ” 

Uncle Pet docilely shut up his knife, and turned to his 
opponent. “Joe,” said he, “ find somethin’ that waan’t 
in the ark, an’ come over : you’ll always find me reasona- 
ble.” And he went and drove his wagon around for Lu 
and her purchases. 

“You’d better ketch ’im when Lu ain’t round,” said 
one to Slyter. 

“ She never interferes with the old man’s trades,” put 
in another. 

' As she turned back to the store, the young girl was met 
by a 3"Oung, good-looking, and, for that region, a very 
well-dressed man, with the manner of one accustomed to 
a different state of society from that which smTounded 
Lu. lie lifted his hat, and bowed with a deferential air. 
“Good-evening, Miss Pettengill.” 

“ Good- afternoon, Mr. Van Dusen,” she answered, a 
little formally for her. 

“ May I inquire whether you attend the party this even- 
ing, Miss Lucille?” he asked. 

“ I think I shall,” was her answer. 

‘ ‘ I have a horse and buggy, and am wholly at your ser- 
vice,” he said respectfully ; “ and it would give me great 
pleasure if you’d permit me to drive round for you.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Van Dusen,” said the girl, not dis- 
pleased at this attention. “ Alf and Dan, with some of 
the State Road girls, are coming round for me,” was her 
answer. 

“If you find the carriage crowded, I will take you 
home. Miss Pettengill,” added the persistent gentleman, 
a little disappointed. 


Lu pettekgill’s punishment. 


177 


' “He ‘might a-known Lu wouldn’t -go with ’im,” said 
a young man, who heard the offer and declination, to a 
companion. “He has been a-stickin’ round after lier all 
summer.” 

Neither of them saw anything unusual in a gentleman’s 
offer to carry a young girl out, alone, to an evening party, 
as there was not at that time. 

The subject of this remark had boarded several months 
at Parker’s, was good-looking, wore a blue broadcloth 
coat, light kerseymere pants, and a gold watch, had a 
plenty of money, and drove a fine horse. He was on 
good terms with everybody, and had a faculty of making 
acquaintances. 

Lu had seen him several times. He had made occa- 
sions to call at her father’s house two or three times, and 
talked horse with Uncle Pet, and pleasant nonsense to her. 
There was much in his address and respectful manner to 
her rather pleasing to the young girl ; and she would have 
accepted his attendance in the present instance, had she 
not been provided for. 


178 - Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


CHAPTER II. 

The Websters were among the early and well-to-do of 
the settlers in Auburn. They continued to live in the 
quite commodious log-cabin until they were able to erect 
a spacious farmhouse near the primitive structure, which 
was now enclosed, and the floor laid, making, a flne dan- 
cing-hall when the preliminary labors of the evening were 
finished. 

An apple-paring was often an informal affair, of a 
dozen young people of the neighborhood in their ordi- 
nary dress, extemporized on short notice, or a more elab- 
orate occasion, where a hundred would gather from more 
distant neighborhoods on formal invitations, without which 
no one felt at liberty to attend. Large or small, there was 
always real substantial work performed ; and often ten, 
fifteen, or twenty bushels of apples were pared, quartered, 
and strung for drying, when, with refreshments, the young 
people were remitted to other pursuits. At the Websters’ 
they came early, and quite filled both rooms of the old 
house, where, amid the clangor of the voices of sixty or 
seventy young men and maidens, all in high spirits, the 
fruit prepared for the occasion was rapidly disposed of, 
and the bowls, pans, plates, and baskets, the debris and 
litter, were cleared away, and a profusion of cake, pump- 
kin -pies, and cider in several stages, to suit the taste, were, 
furnished to the laughing and rather noisy guests. Not 
much time was spent on this waste of cake and c4der, 
when the door of the unfinished house was opened, and 
the company entered. It was still in the hands of the 


Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


179 


carpenters, though cleared of litter, with extemporized 
seats. When lit up as now, and filled with rosy-cheeked 
girls in bright colors, and ruddy-faced young men and 
boys of that not wholly rude assemblage of rustics, the 
spectacle was gay and animated. There were several 
girls, and not a few young men, whose dress and manners 
had the tone and fashion of the world beyond the woods. 

That region lay remote from cities and busy crowds ; and 
the time was before newspapers, railroads, lyccums, and 
lectures. The people were practical Democrats ; and the 
social elements in the natures of the New-Euglanders, 
somewhat modified by the free life of the West, were ac- 
tive and vigorous, and their daily intercourse was more 
intimate, and under less restraint, than among the same 
people and their descendants of to-day.' 

On this occasion the musicians were present ; and at the 
first twangs of the fiddles the floor was filled, — two ranks 
(a row of blooming girls facing their partners), -in the 
old-fashioned “contra-face” dance, where pigeon-wings 
and all manner of fancy steps prevailed, and any unusual 
clumsiness ruled the unfortunate youth out. 

The ball was opened with time-honored “ money- musk,” 
followed by “ cheat- the-lady,” “ chorus- jig,” “ eight- 
reel,” &c., in rapid succession. 

Dan Punderson had taken Zach Burnett ; and they went 
for the Shaw girls, the youngest of whom had a deserved 
reputation for beauty. As they went around for Lu 
Pettengill, they did not reach Webster’s until the l)all had 
opened, when their' entrance made a little sensation. Alf, 
who' had found other means of conveyance, passed his 
violin to one of the young men near him, and devoted 
himself to Lu and the dance. Poor child ! in her 
thoughtless spirits this was an advantage to her. And 
•^hile many would not choose this rollicking, mimicking, 


180 LU pettengill’s punishment. 

witty half-fiddler, half -gentleman, the mad-cap leader of 
fun and frolic, as the friend of a giddy girl, he was true- 
hearted, and had a genuine big brotherly regard for the 
unprotected Lu, and the standing of the Lees made him 
acceptable in all places. On the present occasion his 
duties were in the line of keeping the young .men and 
boys from pressing too annoyingly about the young girl, 
which seemed as natural for them as for bees and wasps 
about a bit of fresh honeycomb. Though on her best 
behavior to-night, subdued and modest as a young 
maiden need be, some of her own sex thought her woman 
enough to be criticised, or that she presented a good sub- 
ject whereby to illustrate the blindness and folly of men. 

As often happens, the guests at a party divide into 
groups, as association, taste, or liking dictate ; especially 
is this tendency noticeable among women, particularly 
those who may be left to their own resources for amuse- 
ment. The centre of one of these was Miss Dorcas 
Briggs, an oldish young lady when a girl, quite ad- 
vanced at twenty- three, and a decided old maid at twenty- 
five. That she was still Miss Briggs was thought to be 
due to a want of appreciation on the part of young men. 
At the present moment she was surrounded by a little 
knot of kindred feminine spirits not more distinguished 
by the devotion of the young men than herself, and who, 
as both sexes will, talked of those about them, and in a 
strain that women sometimes do. 

“ How did Lu Pettengill get here to-night, I wonder? ” 
asked one of the Wilson girls. 

“ She come stramin’ across lots, afoot and alone,’’ an- 
swered Miss Bradley petulantly. 

“ She didn’t go far alone. I’ll warrant ! ” said Dorcas. 
“ She don’t stir that there ain’t a gang of men and boys 
taggin’ ’er about. Poor thing ! she don’t know any bet- 
ter. It’s a perfect shame the way that girl goes on ! ” 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


181 


“ lYell, she has never had a mother, you know,” sug- 
gested one, a little more considerate, “and ihen she is 
a,ttractive.” " ' - 

“Attractive! Fiddlesticks! Any girl could attract if 
she was only a mind to,” was the bitter reply. 

“And her father is always olf horse-tradin’,” sug- 
gested the same thoughtful gii*l. “And Spring’s wife 
ain’t nobody.” 

“ They do say,” put in Miss Bradley, “ that, of all places 
on Sunday, Old Pettengill’s house beats all. There’s 
more’n a dozen young chaps there from mornin’ till night. 
Old Pet is swoppin’ horses, and the boys are goin’ on 
with Lu. And she goes ’round with ’er hair flyin’, and 
’er shews without strings in ’em, stringin’ ’round.” 

“You must own that she looks well to-night,” said her 
excusing friend. 

“ Somebody must a-fixed ’er up,” said Dorcas. “ She 
came with the Shaw girls, and wears some o’ their duds. 
I’ll bet!” 

“Ann’s would be too large for ’er, and Helen’s too 
short,” was the suggestive answer. “ She seems to have 
a new feller after her to-night. Who is he ? — with brown 
clothes, standin’ by Yarn Ganson.” 

“ Oh ! that is young Ed Barns, a son of Deacon Barns,” 
said Dorcas. 

“He is not a son of Deacon Barns, he is a nephew,” 
said Miss Wilson. 

“ It makes no difference,” said Dorcas, “he’s like all 
the rest. He seems to be takin’ turns with this Van 
Dusen. They’ve kind o’ divided ’er between them to- 
night ; and the rest have to stand back, like motherless 
calves.” 

“ She’d better look out for that Van Dusen. I should 
think ’er father would know better than to have him about 
so much,” said Miss Bradley. 


182 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


“Oh! he lets the old man cheat him in horses, and 
makes it up with Lu,” said Dorcas, which made a laugh. 
“ I shouldn’t s’ pose Ed Barns would be taken by ’er. I 
thought they all belonged to the Babtist Church. They 
are as rich as mud. Jim Gates, who worked there last 
summer, said they used silver spoons an’ forks — real 
solid silver — every day ! Think o’ that ! ” 

“That’s one o’ Jim’s stories. Who ever heerd o’ 
silver forks?” said Miss Wilson. “How will Alf Lee 
like it, I wonder, havin’ Ed Barns an’ Van Dusen carryin’ 
on with Lu this way ? ” 

“ Oh 1 he has to stan’ back with the boys. What does 
Lu care for him, do you s’pose? He can’t help himself.” 

“ Alf is a real good friend of hers,” said the thoughtful 
friend of Lu’s. “, And he tells her a good many things.” 

“Here he comes, girls,” said Dorcas, as the laughing, 
cynical young man approached the group. 

“ So the Dorcas Society is in session,” he observed, in 
a tone between banter and sarcasm. “Who has been 
catching it now? ” laughing with real good-nature. 

“We unfortunate girls have been wondering what there 
is about Lu Pettengill that makes all you men and boys 
run after her,” answered Dorcas, with straightforward ill- 
nature. 

“Oh! that is a secret. Miss Briggs,” he answered 
gravely. 

“A secret! Well, I should like to know what it is, 
I should ! ” 

“ So would I,” added Miss Bradley. 

“ It will be perfectly safe with both of you. Neither 
of you will ever try it, ’ ’ he replied a little sharply. 

“How do you know we won’t try it? What is it? 
Come.” ^ 

“ She never runs after the men and boys.’^ 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


183 


“ Oh ! ” and a laugh from the other girls. 

“ You horrid creature ! ” from Dorcas. 

“ They don’t give her a chance,” said Miss Bradley, in 
too much heat to consider her words. 

“ You are right for once. Miss Bradley,” replied Alf. 

“You had better keep watch of Van Dusen,” said 
Dorcas spitefully. 

“ Mr. Barns will watch him,” said the youth, laughing. 

“ And who will watch Mr. Barns? ” asked Miss Wilson. 

“ Yan Dusen and I will watch ’em both,” he answered. 

“ Of course. AYe shall all see how it will come out,” 
said the still tart Miss Briggs, as the young man moved 
away. 

He had been on the lookout, and took Lu in charge, as 
stated. At the first opportunity he had introduced young 
Barns to her, and committed her to his charge during the 
evening. Lu was surprised and a little disappointed in 
his appearance. She had conjured up a figure something 
like Yan Dusen, only more striking. She found him 
common, plainly dressed, without rings, watch chain or 
seals. His face was strong, with marked features, and 
rather plain. His eyes were fine, and his voice low and 
musical. In some way he came to her so frankly 
and kindly, and yet with such marked respect and cour- 
tesy, that she was at perfect ease- with him at once. 
Something there was about him that made him unlike, 
and, as she felt, superior to those about them, even the 
exquisite Yan Dusen, with his gloves, velvet vest and coat- 
collar. She did not much admire his dancing, so quiet 
and such simple steps ; and his ignorance of the figures 
greatly amused her. 

AYhatcver was the estimate of this well-bred young man 
of the rustic maiden, he was quit|^ willing to devote him- 
self to her, but was not pernutted to monopolize her. 


184 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


Among those disposed to seek her was Van Duse'n, whose 
dress, manner, and style have been mentioned ; and his 
get-up had much to take the eye and excite the^ fancy of 
a rustic girl of seventeen. The marked attention of the 
two most conspicuous men of the party was quite notice- 
able. The gentlemen had never met before, and neither 
manifested any strong liking for the other. 

“Who is this Mr. Van Dusen who claims so much of 
your attention ? ’ ’ finally asked Mr. Barns of the young 
girl. 

“Oh! he boards at Parker’s, and di’ives and rides 
about.” 

“He dresses and wears style, as if he were in New 
York,” was the response. 

‘ ‘ Perhaps he thinks we are as good as anybody, Mr. 
Barns.” 

“He certainly thinks you are worth pleasing. Miss 
Pettengill, and in that he is right,” said the young man, 
with a grave sincerity, looking down into the face of the 
girl very respectfully, and a little uncertain whether she 
meant to assert herself and surroundings. 

‘ ‘ Mr. Barns is an old acquaintance of yours ? ’ ’ said 
Van Dusen to her a little later, when he had secured her 
for a dance. 

“Very old indeed,” said the young lady, laughing. 

‘ ‘ I saw him for the first time fully three hours ago. ’ ’ 

“Oh! I thought by your manner toward him that he 
must be an old acquaintance, at least.” 

“I do feel as if I had always known him,” said the 
artless girl. “ He isn’t a bit stuck-up.” 

“Oh! that is it, is it?” said the curled and gloved 
gentleman thoughtfully. “ The Barnses are said to be 
rich,” he added. 

“Are they? Well, you see we are all about alike 
here, Mr. Van Dusen,” answered Lu. 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


185 


The gentleman turned to study the girl’s face for a 
moment, as had Ed Barns, to see what was the meaning 
of her words. 

It was late when the party broke up. On their way to 
the carriage, Lu told Alf that Mr. Van Dusen felt quite 
hurt towards her because she would not permit him to take 
her home. 

“ The d — 1 he does! Let him feel hm't then.” And 
the girl, wondering why he spoke so rudely to her, silently 
took her seat in the carriage which brought her. 


186 


Lu pettekgill’s punishment. 


CHAPTER III. 

As mentioned, no man was shrewder at a barter than 
Uncle Pet. Under a careless air of indifference he carried 
‘a mind full of expedients, which worked in subtle ways, 
and produced what the folk called luck, which took the 
permanent form of thrift. His hand had the transmuting 
power of Midas. His classification of property was ex- 
tensive, if not logical. He had “truck,” “truck and 
dicker, ’ ’ and ‘ ‘ high dicker. ’ ’ A social and liberal man 
he was ; and what with the growing attraction of Lu, a 
disposition for trade, to see customers, to see others trade 
(for which the native Yankee has an eye), to go some- 
where, the Pettengill house was a place of much resort, 
especially on Sundays, and there was a real foundation for 
the ill-natured comment of Miss Briggs and her friend 
Miss Bradley. _ As may be supposed, Mr. Pettengill was 
a good-natured, careless man ; and, though in his wa}^ 
devotedly loving his only child, he seemed quite unaware 
that she had passed the line of childhood, and had be- 
come a very attractive young woman, or that the younger 
frequenters of his house were there on her account. 

On 'the Sunday following the Webster party, there was 
the usual chance gathering at the Pettengills’, — men, old 
and young, with a sprinkling of boys. The house was 
one of the better sort of farmhouses, and neatly painted 
when first finished, now several years before. After the 
death of Lu’s mother, house, yard, fences, and out-build- 
ings had suffered by the owner’s neglect, and fallen into 
a slovenly decay. There was also quite a comfortable log- 


LU pettengill’s punishment! • 187 


house on the place, iu which dwelt Bill Spring, who worked 
the farm, and whose wife was the only woman who had 
ever had any supervision of Lu. And her older children 
were often Lu’s companions in the absence of her father. 

Lu had something of the shrewd, easy nature of her 
father ; and her housekeeping may have been a little care- 
less, though it was the remark of all the women in the 
neighborhood that Lu Pettengill could do when she set 
herself about it. She had great dexterity, they said, at 
turning off things when she put her hand to them. 

“I wish to gracious she’d turn off the men and boys 
about ’er ! ” said Dorcas when this remark was made to 
her, — a thing which probably had never occurred to Lu 
to attempt. 

This Sunday did not prove a good day for trade. In 
fact. Uncle Pet had a New-Englander’s indisposition to 
real business on Sunday, and was never known to conclude 
a trade on that day. In a metaphysical way he did not 
regard the sabbath as really and in fact broken, so long as 
any thing remained to complete a transaction. “We will 
look the critters over,” he said on this Sunday to Baker, 
who came up from Mantua. “You can see the steers, 
and kind o’ make up yer mind about ’em. I’ve seen the 
boss ; and, if we don’t think alike, no harm done.” 

Many friends and customers called during the fore- 
noon, from quite a circuit, and looked and talked over, 
and shaped out several inchoate trades. Half a ‘dozen 
horses were tied along the fence by the road, whose own- 
ers, with other ' idlers, gathered about Uncle Pet, and 
moved with him from one object of barter to another, till 
all had been gone over, and the prospects of commerce 
were developed and discussed, and anecdotes of former 
trades recounted, interspersed with Uncle Pet’s obser- 
vations, many of which were quite maximic. “ Never 


188 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


speak ill of a man’s boss or his darter,” he remarked. 
“You may own the boss afterwards; or yer boy may 
marry the girl — or somebody will: give ’em all a fair 
chance. Hosses an’ wimmin giner’ly shows their own 
faults theirselves, if they have ’em.” 

It was also known, to those who observed and appre- 
ciated him, that he never whittled on Sunday: He had 
been known to take up a bit of tempting wood, and bring 
out and open his knife, and run his finger along its edge, 
in the presence of a Sunday customer, under great provo- 
cation ; but he always restrained himself. 

The admirers of Lu, and those who vibrated between 
her and her father, as a few did, made their appearance 
dui'ing the day, from mid forenoon till evening. 

On this day several from Music Street, as the road on 
which the young fiddlers lived was called, had strolled 
there across the woods, some from the State Road, and 
other neighborhoods as remote as Auburn Corners. 

Alf was there, as he often was, and a little surprised to 
meet the Wards from the West Part. “What the deuse 
did you come for?” he asked of Ed, quite as heavy and 
stupid a youth as the country had then produced. 

“I brought ’im over,” said Mark the younger, in a 
piping voice, “to trade to Mr. Pettengill for ‘truck,’ or 
‘ truck and dicker.’ ” 

‘ ‘ If you can work him off for nothing, it would be 
money in your pocket, Mark. I think E^ncle Pet don’t 
take animals of his build and length of ear. I guess 
you’ll have to drive him back again, Marcus.” 

The young men, as usual, lingered a while outside, 
indulging iu rather coarse chaff and banter, before they 
ventured into the house, not admitting to themselves, per- 
haps, the cause of their coming. When they entered, they 
found Lu about her home duties, with her hair caught up 


Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


189 


in a picturesque fashion, and dressed in a way to provoke 
the criticism of women, and which, while no man could 
describe, he would in his secret soul think very becoming. 
Certain I am, no man was ever known to question her 
dress, or any thing else about her. In some way her 
light form seemed becomingly draped ; and it always im- 
parted winsomeness to what she wore, in spite of her 
want of care. Any thing womanly, having such a head, 
and as she bore it, with such a face and eyes, such mouth, 
cheeks, and chin, involved and sometimes lost in such 
hair, never failed with men ; and the charm, after all, was 
in her abundantly piquant womanliness, even in the excess 
of her spirits, which bordered on the wild at times. She 
said and did nothing but what a woman or girl might say 
or do, and in a way impossible to a man or boy, and 
therefore, in male eyes, neither misfitting nor improper. 

She always received her callers in the most unconven- 
tional way in the world. She met them as she was, at 
once, in a bright, cordial way, and it could never occur to 
her that she was not presentable, and she would not know 
how to make an excuse, nor could she imagine a condi- 
tion or situation where one could be necessary. She called 
the most of them by their first names, and as if their 
coming was a matter of course, and was as unconscious 
of their admiration as that any part of her conduct was_ 
liable to criticism. She treated them all alike, and in the 
exuberance of her spirits and kindness had no favorites. 

Toward evening Mr. Van Dusen drove up and came 
in, begloved and neat, as usual. “Superfine, just alike 
on both sides,” as Alf expressed it. Him, Lu distin- 
guished by calling him Mr. Van Dusen. 

Something later Ed Barns called, neatly dressed, and 
paid his respects to the young hostess in a way which in- 
dicated to the young men present that he was calling on 


190 


Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


the mistress of the house in her own domain, — had come 
for that especial purpose ; and he addressed her in rather 
marked contrast to the way they approached her, and 
which advanced her much in their respect. They also 
observed the easy manner with which she received his 
homage as her proper due. Mr. Barns was from the 
East, and he was felt to be authority on all matters of 
deportment and etiquette. He did not remain beyond the 
limit of a usual call, and quite absorbed the attention of 
Lu while he remained. His manner was easy and cour- 
teous to those whom he found there, a little ceremonious 
toward Mr. Van Dusen, and he left a most favorable 
impression when he took leave. 

Some one ventured a criticism upon him, w;hen Lu play- 
fully interrupted him : “We don’t ever talk of our friends 
who have just left, unless to praise them,” she said. 

Van Dusen did his best to be on favorable terms with 
Alf, and finally took him away in his buggy. The others 
went off by twos and threes, and remitted Lu to her own 
thoughts and fancies at an early hour. 

Indeed, she had established a tacit understanding, sel- 
dom disregarded, that no one was privileged to claim her 
society at any but usual hours, among a people where 
unusual hours ended early. 

It would have been a' great relief to these rustic youths 
to have known that the usages of a more advanced stage 
of socliiety entirely authorized their calling on Lu, and that 
this expression of a young man’s admiration was its own 
sufficient justification. As it was, they felt sheepish as 
calling without excuse ; and, as they came without any 
admitted errand, they did not know when it was done, and 
were as much embarrassed to leave as to approach the 
object of attraction. ' 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


191 


CHAPTER IV. 

Deacon Barns was not only a man of large means for 
that day, but a man of public spirit and usefulness. He 
first turned his attention to the Baptist Church, which 
soon took on fresh life and strength under the application 
of his vigorous will and generous aid. He next de- 
voted himself to the broader field of * education. A man 
of culture, and quite apprehending the needs of the new 
community he was now identified with, he went about put- 
ting the schools in his immediate neighborhood on a more 
enlightened basis. His own daughter and niece, Ed’s 
sister, had been engaged in the summer schools with great 
success, and drew to them a number of girls usually 
thought too old to attend the summer schools, taught by 
girls for one dollar per week, which was twice as much as 
the same girl could earn at the spinning-wheel. 

Mr. Barns and Uncle Pettengill were territorially in 
the same district, although living somewhat remote from 
each other, measuring the distance by the established 
highways. Upon the approach of winter the deacon be- 
stirred himself to have the schoolhouse put in good repair, 
and such a feeling of interest excited among the residents, 
that his nephew Ed was employed to teach the school, at 
quite a liberal rate of compensation for that day ; and, to 
make his labors somewhat effective, his uncle advanced 
quite a sum to secure the necessary new books which a 
regular classification of the scholars required. After two 
or three days’ experience of the wants, Ed dismissed -the 
school, and went to Painesville and purchased them. 


192 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


Though without practice as a teacher, young Barns had 
received a very thorough English education by the latest 
methods, was a young man of vigorous good sense and 
popular address, and, though reluctant to undertake the 
charge of the school, he entered upon it with the determi- 
nation to deserve at least the commendation of his* uncle, 
whether he met the approbation of patrons generally or 
not. In consideration of the large wages paid him, it was 
understood that the directors were at liberty to receive 
pupils from other districts, who were to pay full tuition 
without benefit of the school fund belonging to the dis- 
trict proper. This arrangement drew to the school a 
large number of young men and women from the neigh- 
boring districts to enjoy the superior advantages of the 
new methods of instruction. 

Within a week after receiving his new books and a 
blackboard, the name of which had never before been 
heard there, he had his numerous school well in hand ; 
and, after the first month had passed, all cavilling at his 
new methods was silenced, and pupils and patrons zeal- 
ously united with the now popular instructor to carry the 
school forward with great success. 

That winter was an event in the life of Lu. Though 
nominally “boarding round,” as it w'as called, and while 
he probably went the entire round of all the homesteads 
in his domain, young Barns lived most of the winter at 
two or three places, including his uncle’s. Mr. Petten- 
gill’s was the most eligible house convenient to his school, 
and was very early- and much resorted to by him, especially 
in stormy weather. He soon discovered not only that Lu 
had very considerable quickness and aptitude lor learning, 
but developed a taste for reading, and a lively apprecia- 
tion of Scott’s poems, which he furnished her with, and 
many of his novels. This opened the world of romance 


LIT PETTENGILL’s PUNISHMENT. 193 

to the kindling heart of the young girl, whose docility and 
application enabled her also to keep up with her classes in 
school, where she was one of the best pupils. She had a 
girl-friend boarding with her, who divided with her the 
care of the house ; and she was thus enabled to give most 
of her time to her studies and books. The young master 
was ever mindful of what was due from him as a gentle- 
man to the young women and men under his instruction. 
Though suspected by more than one of her girl compan- 
ions of undue preference for Lu, he conducted himself 
with the utmost circumspection and prudence, and became 
the object around which more than one maiden’s innocent 
fancy hovered, while to Lu he undoubtedly shone as a 
star of considerable lustre. 

Near the close of the school the master began to re- 
quire absolute silence during the last exercise for the day, 
which was spelling. For this brief period all the juniors 
were released from study, and the whole school was 
expected to observe the strictest order and decorum. To 
insure absolute silence, the punishment of ferule — one or 
more blows on the palm of the hand — was denounced 
against the crime of whispering. Several days under this 
somewhat severe regimen went on without any infraction 
of this law. 

One day, just as the last word was about to be given 
out, amid the most profound silence, Lu, who had from 
the first day, to the surprise of the world, been one of the 
most decorous and well-behaved of the pupils, suddenly 
turned to a girl near her, and said ‘ ‘ O Sue ! ” in a voice 
audible to the whole school. Barns turned to her in utter 
surprise. There was no help for it. He omitted the last 
word, took from his table a light ruler of wood, used to 
rule the writing-books, and approached the offender. Sur- 
prised into the act, the young girl’s face crimsoned, 


194 LU pettengill’s pukishment. 

and as the master approached her she as suddenly 
became pallid. The eyes of the whole school were upon 
her ; and a pained feeling, an apprehension, as of some- 
thing unusual, something bad, about to happen, seemed 
to come upon the children. Punishment by the infliction 
of a blow had not been administered in that school. 

“Miss Pettengill, did you whisper?” His voice was 
low, and, spite of him, tremulous. 

“I did; but I did not mean to,” in a clear, pleading 
tone, looking up in a frightened, innocent way into the 
master’s face. 

“ Hold out your hand.” This time the voice was firm ; 
and a slender, very beautiful, and, for a housewife, a deli- 
cate little hand, was extended, and at the same time the 
pained young face went down. 

“Indeed, indeed, Mr. Barns” — The pleading voice 
stopped. He took the tips of the slender fingers in 
his other hand, and she knew that she was not to be 
spared. “The hand is my own, Mr. Bams,” she said 
proudly, withdrawing it from his slight grasp, and imme- 
diately presenting it again for punishment. The slight 
ruler descended, barely touching the sweet pahn, and fell 
from the nerveless grasp of the young master, who raised 
both his hands for an instant, and covered his face with 
them. A half-sob broke from the j^oung girls as the ruler 
descended, and more than one manly brow was knit in an 
indignant frown upon the young master. He recovered 
his ruler and his wonted manner, and dismissed the school. 

The violation of the rule was ,flagrant. The Yankee 
mind of old and young had an instinctive veneration for 
law, and the scholars felt that the punishment had to be 
inflicted. They could not blame the master ; but they 
went away with hm't feelings, as if an unavoidable calami- 
ty had fallen upon them all. When the school was dis- 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


195 


missed, the larger girls gathered silently around Lii, now 
cold and proud. Many of them burst into tears of S3"m- 
pathy, and were eager to kiss her ; but she put them by 
with a dignity of manner never seen in her before, and 
took her way from the schoolhouse. 

She went very quietly and directly home, saying no 
words to anj'body. At home she discharged her house- 
hold affairs rapidly and silently. She then sat down with 
her books, under the watchful ej^es of her friend Sue 
Brown, and turned to her lessons ; but her friend observed 
that her eyes, and apparently her thoughts, were not on 
her study. She put away her grammar, took a volmne of 
Scott, turned to the closing scenes of the “ Lady of the 
Lake,” closed the book without reading, and sat looking 
into the fire. A moment later the color flashed up in her 
cheek, as a light, quick step was heard on the stoop out- 
side. She sprang to the door, and opened it ere the tap 
for admission was given. 

“Good-evening, Mr. Barns.” 

‘ ‘ Good-evening, Miss Pettengill. ’ ’ 

“ Will 3^ou walk in? ” she asked in a veiy quiet voice. 

The young man stepped in, paused, then turning to 
her, — 

“ I was afraid I could never meet you in peace again,” 
he said in a low voice, intended for her alone. 

“ O Mr. Barns ! how meanly you must have thought of 
me ! ” she replied touchingly. 

“ Meanly ! Miss Pettengill, I dare not say how ” — he 
checked himself. “I wished to see your father also,” 
he said, in quite a different tone and maimer from the*" 
unfinished sentence with which he began. 

They went forward, and the young man paused by a seat 
near the fire, where Mr. Pettengill sat silently cogitating, 
as was his custom ; while the table and lights’ occupied 
by the girls were a little remote. 


196 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


“Mr. Pettengill,” said the young man at once, without 
taking the offered seat, ‘ ‘ a little thing occurred in school 
this afternoon that has pained me very much, and I want 
to talk with you about it.” 

“ And that little thing,” said Lu, coming forward very 
promptl}^, “was feruling the wicked Lu for breaking the 
rules of the school. — Mr. Barns,” with real dignity, “ if 
it is necessary that my father be troubled with this ‘ little 
thing,’ I am the one to tell him.” Which she did in the 
most literal and explicit manner. When he came to under- 
stand that his only child, his Lu, had really received a 
blow, there were symptons of rising anger. 

“ How, young man ! Did you really strike her for such 
a trifle?” addressing Mr. Barns. 

“Father, father,” said the girl, stepping to him, and 
placing her hand on his arm, “ it was not a trifle. The 
order of his school depended on it. He had to do it. 
Please, please, don’t say any thing about it,” beseech- 
ingly. 

‘ ‘ Did he hurt you ? ’ ’ 

“Not my hand — not a bit. He hardly touched it.” 

“ Was_ that all? ” 

“ That was all,” said the girl, who moved away to the 
table, as the greatly-relieved young man took the seat 
offered by the fire. 

“ ’Pears to me, Mr. Barns,” said the father, not at all 
satisfied, but who, for politic reasons, did not wish to 
discuss the matter much in the presence of the girls, — 
“’pears to me this is shavin’ purty close; ferilin’ a girl 
for a whisper — an’ she woman-grown.” 

“She is a woman,” said the youth, “if there is one 
in the world.” 

“We don’t quite like strikin’ women here on the 
Western Pesarve,” replied Uncle Pet, not much mollified 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


197 


by the emphatic declaration of the young man. ‘‘As 
you’d made such a law, I s’pose you had to stan’ to it, 
no matter who or what broke over it. I mean to be rea- 
sonable. I’m not one to find fault. It seems a little 
hard, though — the poor thing!” drawing his hand has- 
tily across his misty eyes. 

“Mr. Pettengill,” said the deeply-moved youth, “I 
presume the rule was an unwise one. I presume I should 
have overlooked the violation of it. I do assure you I 
would sooner strike my own hand off than injure a hair of 
your daughter.” These words were pronounced with a 
fervor that left no doubt of the young man’s sincerity, 
and greatly mollified the rising anger of the old man. 

“Wal, wal, Mr. Barns, it’s no consequence. Every- 
body speaks well o’ you. I’m satisfied. Let us say no 
more about it. — Lucille, bring us some cider and apples,” 
he said. 

The young ghl placed a basket of beautiful fruit, with 
plates and knives, on a stand near the two men, and filled 
out a glass of cider, which she handed to the younger. 
As she was doing this, he was pained at the stricken 
expression of her face as she raised her eyes for one 
moment to Ms. Having met the wish of her father, the 
young woman withdrew from the room. 

Mr. Pettengill and his guest maintained a desultory 
conversation for a few moments, when the young man 
made his way to the table where Miss Brown was appar- 
ently engaged with her lessons, to which he devoted some 
attention, and gave her aid in them. He lingered a min- 
ute. Lu did not again appear ; and, requesting Sue Brown 
to wish her good-evening for him, he took his leave. 

Lu arose early the next morning with a dreary sense 
of change and loneliness. She could see by her eyes that 
she must have wept much of the night through. She 


198 


•Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


bathed her face and eyes, and, without waking Sue Brown, 
went down, and about the necessary affairs of the house. 
Ere schooltime she had in a good measure recovered her 
usual looks, and went bravely off with Sue, to face her 
teacher and schoolmates. Nothing could surpass the con- 
siderate kindness with which the most of them received 
and treated her. No word of the occurrence of yesterday 
was said in her presence. All that day, and for two or 
three succeeding days, Lu avoided the eye of her teacher, 
which was very often upon her. Nor did he succeed in 
regaining the old footing with her while the school con- 
tinued. 

Punishments — blows upon the person — were then the 
rule in school as well as in the family, and it would have 
been a remarkable case which should have attracted much 
attention. And yet the feruling of Lu Pettengill by Ed 
Barns was a good deal talked about. 

Dorcas Briggs declared that it was good enough for - 
her. For her part, she was glad that she had met one 
young man who treated her as she deserved. 

Van Dusen thought that Alf ought to hold Ed Barns 
responsible for it ; while that clear-headed young man 
found trouble in getting a satisfactory view of the transac- 
tion in all its bearings. 

The^ school ran on, and ended in mid March ; and, so 
far as the world saw, nothing came of this incident. 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


199 


CHAPTER V. 

Van Dusen came along on the stage, from toward the 
Ohio River, about a year before the opening of my tale, 
with two or three trunks, and stopped at Parker’s, where 
he had since remained. He was very well dressed, wore 
rings, and seemed to have plenty of money. He pur- 
chased a horse or two, drove about, and made himself 
acquainted at once. Evidently he was of a different 
class of men from the farmers and mechanics of the re- 
gion where he sojourned. He appeared familiar with the 
South-west, that unknown region of blood and romance ; 
had been in all the principal cities of the United States, 
but said little of himself or former life, — a gentleman 
of leisure living on his money, a rather handsome man, 
twenty- eight or thirty years old, of showy manners, and 
much inclined to cultivate the society of young girls, with 
whom he was quite a favorite. His attentions to Lu had 
become marked, and evidently not unpleasing to her. 

The new pursuits and interests of the young girl during 
the winter in a great measure broke up* her father’s house 
as a resort for the young men and boys, who found a 
charm in her presence ; and, when the school closed in the 
spring, they observed in some marked way a change in 
her, — as sweet and winning, but much more grave and 
quiet, as if in some sort absorbed, and not inclined to 
break into the romping, frank ways of former times. The 
period of school and study had liot been favorable to * the 
courtship of Van, Dusen. He had been obliged to hover 
about in the near distance, occasionally rushing in, and 


200 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


escaping again. When he and Ed Barns met, they were 
civil and very polite ; could never be more. Van Dusen 
disliked Ed, and that young man very much distrusted 
Van Dusen. The breaking-up of winter and the closing 
of school left the Pettengill coast quite clear again ; and, 
with the hardening of the roads in mid April, Van Dusen 
was often calling upon Lu, — not on Sundays, as formerly, 
but many times on week da^^s ; and two or three times the 
young lady had taken a seat in his light top-buggy for 
short drives. The gentleman was not without shrewdness, 
and had, with much finessing, effected a horse-trade with 
Lu’s father on the principle announeed by Dorcas Briggs, 
by which commercially he had suffered very gravely. This 
had quite opened the heart of the horse- trader to him, 
who, while he may have distrusted his shrewdness, had no 
suspicion of his designs. He was obviously too weak to 
be very wicked. 

Van Dusen had mueh suavity and a certain soft way in 
his address to women, and was supposed by young men 
to be quite irresistible. He had had much association 
with females of a elass wholly unknown in rural Western 
Reserve, and, beyond show and glitter, had little idea of 
what would win the heart of such a girl as Lu. He might 
dazzle her eyes, excite her curiosity, and pique her fancy. 
It was possible for him, perhaps, to produce such a gla- 
mour in her imagination, that she might suppose she loved 
him ; and he doubtless calculated, in his estimate of her, 
that, under its infiuence, one of her free, impulsive nature 
would be apt to act very precipitately, regardless of con- 
sequences for the time. 

The season deepened. The snows and frosts had long 
disappeared ; and spring came, working all its wonderful 
charm ,in wood, field, and warm valley, opening flowers, 
and swelling leaf-buds. The farmer and the farmer’s 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


201 


boys, all the idlers about Gardner’s store and Parker’s, 
were off in the fields or woods, chopping, splitting rails, 
scoring or hewing timber for new buildings, clearing land, 
or ploughing. The whole world was moving with new life 
and bustling activity. The roads were silent and deserted. 
There were few to see or know as Van Dusen came and 
went, busy with the meshes he was weaving for the guile- 
less young maiden. He had lingered in this far-away region 
for nearly two years, which safety may have led him to 
seek. Ere he deemed it prudent to abandon it, an attrac- 
tion held him within it. Strong reasons were now urging 
him to appear again upon fields of action, and Lu must 
go also. Why should he not bear this lovely creature, 
with all her possibilities, with him ? He had an insidious 
skill in telling a story, and particularly in describing 
things and scenes that he had himself witnessed, and gone 
through with. He began by recounting tales of adventure 
in the South-west, and descriptions of its scenery and won- 
derful productions, the romantic exploits of its half-bandit 
men, and the ventures and risks of its high-spirited 
women, for their love and devotion. He drew marvellous 
pictures of life in the cities, — of wealth easily gained and 
profusely squandered, of beautiful queenly women, gor- 
geously arrayed in priceless robes, and laden with dia- 
monds and gemSj living in gilded palaces, standing in 
splendid saloons, and receiving the homage of men ; and 
then he would ask her how she liked it, and how she 
would like so to reign. The young girl kindled, and said 
she should like it, oh, more than she could tell ! If she 
expressed doubt of the existence of such life, he assured 
her that it was real, and all within her reach. 

With the close of his school Ed Barns went to Cleve- 
land to complete an arrangement with the house of 
Winslow & Co., in which he invested quite an amount, 


202 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


inherited from his father, and became a junior partner. 
It was a large forwarding and commission house, with a 
branch in Buffalo, and one in Detroit. He remained there 
until near the end of April, when it was arranged that he 
should be transferred to the Detroit house, and he re- 
turned home on a visit of a few days ere leaving for that 
then distant point. 

Toward evening of the day following his retmm’, he 
strolled across the woods over north to see Lucille Petten- 
gill. He had not met her since the last day of his school, 
and felt then that he had parted with her in some sort of 
a mist very unpleasant to him. He found her alone, and 
saw the crimson which his approach kindled vanish, fol- 
lowed by an unusual pallor, which soon gave place to a 
wonted hue. She received him naturally and kindly ; yet 
the young man was 'at once aware of a change in the 
young lady (nobody would now think of calling her any 
thing else) herself, — something of womanly reserve, a 
sort of sweet dignity, which seemed to have added to her 
height, and which Van Dusen found so puzzling, if not 
baffling. Lu was glad to see the young man, and let him 
see that she was. They touched lightly upon the old 
schoolday times, as there was one ugly thing projecting 
sharply from the ground covered by them, which both 
would avoid. As Ed held the warm, shapely hand, it 
came cuttingly to him that he had ever touched it as an 
executioner in punishment. 

For a long time they dwelt on her reading. She was 
enthusiastic over Kebecca and Flora McDonald. Had 
read every thing she had, and much of it twice. Then 
they came to Ed’s self, his prospects and plans. 

‘ ‘ And so you are going away, ’ ’ she said a little plain- 
tively. A pause. “I don’t wonder. What is there 
here to keep an ambitious man ? ’ ’ Musingly this was 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 203 

said, with her eyes in the distance, as if surveying a re- 
mote land. 

“ Not much to keep, certainly, a good deal to come 
back to,” said the youth, bending his eyes upon her. 

“Your sister, your cousin, uncle, and aunt,” answered 
the unconscious girl. ‘ ‘ How happy you must be to have 
them all ! ” 

‘ ‘ Can you think of nothing else here ? ’ ’ asked the 
young man a little eagerly, starting toward her, and sud- 
denly’ checking himself. 

“You have lived here so short a time that you can 
have no attacliment to the place,” was her innocent 
answer. 

“None to the place, certainlj^” replied the youth 
coldly, turning from her. Rallying a moment later, he 
asked her of her pursuits, whom she had seen, where she 
had been, and all that. 

She had seen very few. Her friends had dropped away 
from her — all but Mr. Van Duseii. He called every few 
days, and she had ridden out with him two, or three times. 
Ed started a little at this. Two months ago he would 
have cautioned the thoughtless, friendless girl, the docile 
pupil; but the calm, dignified woman before him — and 
then her manner, the readiness and easy way of her speak- 
ing of it, compelled him to leave the matter where she 
dropped it. 

He finally reminded her of an old promise to permit 
him to take her over to his uncle’s, and introduce her to 
his sister Julia and his cousin Mary, and his aunt and 
uncle. Lu flashed up in her old way at this, and declared 
her entire readiness to keep her promise whenever he 
should require it. He had engagements for a day or 
two ; but on the second or third day after, if the weather 
was fine, as early as one or two he would call for her. 


204 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


She would be ready. 

His sister and cousin would be sure to lilie her. He 
had told them all about her, and had promised them to 
take her over there while he was here, and he wanted 
they should be good friends. And then he went. As he 
stepped into the woodpath in the deepening twilight, the 
light-hearted youth trolled out a lively air. 

The thoughtful maiden from her window watched his 
receding form till the trees and darkness of the woods hid 
it from her sight, nor till long after the trees had melted 
into the solid gloom of night did she withdraw her eyes 
from the direction in which he disappeared. 

She did not expect Ed to come for her the next day : 
on the second he was quite certain to come. It was a 
beautiful day. She made her arrangements,- dressed her- 
self with care after the mid-day dinner, and awaited his 
arrival. The slow afternoon wore ^way, and left her 
alone. 

The next, the last day named by him, was warmer 
and more delightful JJian its predecessors ; and with abso- 
lute certainty Lu hurried the dinner, and was ready at 
half-past twelve. 

One, two, three, came, unaccompanied by Mr. Barns. 

At four Van Dusen drove up, just on his return from 
Cleveland, as he explained to her by way of excuse for ^ 
not calling within the last three or four days. He was 
weary with his long drive, and too much flurried to notice 
any thing in her manner, had there been. 

He asked her to take a ride with him the next 
evening. 

She told him she would. 

“ At about half-past four.’* 

She would be ready. 

“ I have something to show you.” 


Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


205 


“Oh ! let me see it now.” 

“ And something very particular to say to you ” — 

“ Something particular to say to me? ” 

“Very particular. Can’t you guess what it is? Of 
coimse you can.” 

“ I will wait for that till to-morrow.” 

She said this a little gravely, Van Dusen thought. 


/ 


206 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A LITTLE before one of the next day, Ed Barns drove 
up with a pair of ‘dashing horSes and light carriage. Lu 
received him coolly. 

“Miss Pettengill,” said the youth, “I owe you a 
thousand apologies for not keeping my word with you. I 
could not. On the day after I was here I was to meet 
Capt. Walker at Gen. Ford’s, in Burton. When I 
reached there, I found that Walker had got hurt on the 
‘Richmond,’ and was at Painesville, and I hurried off 
there. I expected to be back night before last ; but I 
did not get back till one o’clock this morning. I am 
sm-e you will excuse me.” 

“Certainly, Mr. Barns,” said the unmoved woman. 
‘ ‘ Your excuse — and none was needed — is of the best. I 
am sorry you were put to such inconvenience. So far as 
I am concerned, it was not of the least consequence.” 

“ I hoped,” said the young man, “ it would not make 
any great difference ” — 

“ None in the world,” very cool and natural. 

“ That you would as soon go to-day as on yesterday,” 
anxiously. 

“My going at all, Mr. Barns, is of no consequence, 
and it is impossible for me to go to-day,” quite decisively. 

‘ ‘ How ? Impossible to-day ! To-morrow ’ ’ — 

“You have something else to do, Mr. Barns,” inter- 
rupted she coolly. 

“To-night,” said the young man sadly, “I must go 
to Cleveland. Our steamer leaves for Detroit in the mprp- 


Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


207 


ing, and I must ride all night to reach it in time. Surely 
you will go with me this afternoon,” pleadingly. 

“I cannot. I have promised to ride with Mr. Van 
Dusen this afternoon.” 

“ Mr. Van Dusen? ” 

“Mr. Van Dusen.” 

‘ ‘ And you will keep your word with him in pref er- 
eiice ” — 

“ I shall keep my word with him. You have no claim 
on me, Mr. Barns.” 

“ None in the least,” said the young man sadly, after 
a moment’s pause. “Miss Pettengill, I may never see 
you again : may I say one word to you before I go? ” 

“Any thing, Mr. Barns.” 

“ This Van Dusen — do you know him well ? ” 

“ O-o, this Van Dusen ! You would speak of him? ” 

“ He is not one for you to intrust yourself to,” looking 
her steadily in the eyes. 

“Indeed, Mr. Barns, is it the rule of the school that 
the girl who rides with him shall be feruled? ” 

“ Oh, my God ! ” cried the young man, “ that unfortu- 
nate touch of your hand ! You will never forgive me for 
it ! ” with exquisite anguish. 

“Don’t call it unfortunate,” said Lu in a voice very 
soft. ‘ ‘ I shall never forget it. It came to me when I 
needed it,” sadly. 

“ I do not understand you. Miss Pettengill,” said Ed 
eagerly, surprised at her words. 

“It is of no consequence. I find people often mis- 
understand each other.” 

After a long pause. 

“ Miss Pettengill,” at length, “I had hoped so much 
from this ” — Another pause. “We shall at least part 
as friends, shall we not? ” 


208 


LU pettengill’s punishjvient. 


1:“ Certainly, on my part.” 

“ Good-by, Miss Pettengill.” 

“ Good-by, Mr. Barns.” 

And he went. 

Van Dusen arrived, a little excited, for some reason, 
yet he observed something unusual in the look of Lu. 

“What is it, Lu?” 

“ Nothing that you can be interested in, Mr. Van 
Dusen.” 

‘ ‘ I am interested in every thing that concerns you, ’ ’ 
quite earnestly. 

No answer ; and they proceeded to the carriage. Van 
Dusen drove east to the State Road, and then north to one 
parallel with that on which Lu lived, rather unfrequented, 
and which led through a new part of the country, much 
of which was still covered with forest. Into this Van 
Dusen turned his horse, and down west. The road, al- 
though the new ground was hard, was not very good, and 
a little care was needed to avoid the stumps that en- 
croached on the track. For three miles there were few 
houses, and at that season the risk of meeting a traveller 
on it was the smallest. Their progress was slow, and 
Van Dusen beguiled the way with a story. It was all 
about the love-adventure of young Du Barras, a Creole 
friend of his, who lived near Baton Rouge. lie had been 
horribly mismatched in marriage, ran away North from 
his wife, met with a lovely giil in a rural region, fell in 
love with her, but could not marry her, because of his 
wife. She went off with him, and they lived happily 
She was the Mrs. Du Barras of whom he had before 
told her. This was the tale in short. As it was told by 
Van Dusen it was a wonderful story, full of romance and 
moving incident. When he finished it, he asked Lu, who 
had remained silent, what she thought of it. 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


209 


“ I think that this girl whom you call Viola was a fo( . 
Your Du Barras was a married man and a villain,” she 
replied with spirit. “Are there many such things, such 
men and women, in the world you have told me of, Mr. 
Van Dusen? ” 

“ The world is full of them, Lu.” 

No response. 

They had reached, apparently, the western terminus of 
the highway, where standing trees closed around it, and 
but a very indistinct trail led into the forest. 

“ Do you propose to drive any farther? ” asked Lu. 

“ Oh ! the road is better a little farther on,” he replied. 

“ Very well. I will not go with you any farther,” she 
coolly answered, preparing to jump from the carriage. 

Van Dusen laughed, yet seemed disconcerted, and said 
he had been misled as to this road. He was told that it 
was a very good road ; that it grew better after leaving the 
State Road, and he thought he would try it. He turned 
back, and regained an open space, and paused. 

“I told you,” he said^ that I had something to show 
you.” He pulled from under the seat a beautiful mo- 
rocco-covered case, which he opened, displaying a pair of 
pistols and a sheathed bowie-knife, which he carelessly ex- 
posed, yet seemed anxious to hide, saying that they were a 
part of a South-western gentleman’s ‘ ‘ kit. ’ ’ He took from 
the case two smaller ones, and, opening, took from one a 
pair of gold bracelets, from the other a beautiful watch 
and a long gold chain, which he held up to the bewildered 
gaze of the astonished girl. The rays of the setting sun 
fell partly upon them, and they seemed to light up the 
lonely woods like the kindling of a fire. When Van 
Dusen stopped and laid down the reins, she took them, 
and the horse, under her guidance, moved along. As 
the gilded bracelets met the dazzled eyes of the girl, she 
dropped the reins, raised her hands, exclaiming, — 


210 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


“ O Mr. Van Dusen ! What are these? ” and remained 
silent, lost in amazement and admiration. 

“These,” said Van Dusen, holding up a pair of pen- 
dants, and placing one near the ear of Lu, “ are for the 
ears, of course. How this becomes you!” admiringly. 
“This is a lady’s watch and chain,” lifting it, and open- 
ing the clasp. “ Let me place it around your neck — just 
once,” he said, as, with a flash of her dark eyes, she 
raised her hand to repulse his attempt. 

“ They are not for me,” she said gravely. 

“How do you know? ” 

No answer. 

‘ ‘ They are for the girl I love best in all the world, the 
only girl I love — that I have ever loved.” 

“ Does she love you? ” was the responsive question. - 

“I hope so, oh, I hope so ! ” In some way he felt 
himself repulsed. His story of Du Barras had not been 
received as he had expected". “You had better drive 
along,” said Lu in a cool voice. In his doubt and in- 
decision he drove on some distance in silence. Suddenly 
he drew up his horse at a secluded place in the darkening 
road, on the south side of which lay the forest, and 
dropped the reins. 

“Lucille, I love you madly! You must, you shall, 
be mine ! ” in a voice which implored and commanded. 

“What do you mean?” demanded the girl, aroused, 
turning her great flashing eyes on him, in which was not 
a particle of fear. 

“I am the Du Barras of my story. I will have you,” 
dashing the golden chain over her neck with a fierce 
energy. 

“Oh!” cried she, grasping his hands with her own 
with such sudden and desperate strength as to force them 
from her, parting the chain at the back of her neck ; and, 


LU pettengill’s punishment. ' 211 

at the same moment leaping from the carriage, she sprang 
into the woods, and vanished amid the trees. 

Her sudden and determined action took Van Dusen 
utterly by surprise, and started his horse, which plunged 
forward. It was a minute or two ere he recovered the 
reins and control of the animal, and when he did it was 
several rods from the place where the escapade was made. 
He secured his horse to a limb, and turned back to look 
for the fugitive. At the most, he supposed she would 
stop in the margin of the wood, where he must at all 
events make his peace* with her. His safety might de- 
pend on that. He could not find her in the margin of the 
forest. He ventured in deeper, called her name, pro- 
claimed his regret, asked her pardon in a loud voice, but 
in vain. He heard and saw nothing of her, and was 
compelled to abandon the hope of recovering her ; and, 
placing himself in his buggy, he drove slowly back to 
Parker’s. In anticipation of a sudden departure, he had 
moved his effects to Cleveland, reserving this horse and 
buggy for his final going, although he was unable to 
determine just when or how that might be. On his return 
this evening, he had his horse fed, took some refresh- 
ments, said he must go to Cleveland that night, and drove 
south towards Auburn Corners, for the then most eligible 
road. 

Fortunately the point at which Lu escaped from the 
carriage was nearly opposite her father’s home, a little 
more than half a mile from the north margins of his fields. 
She was quite familiar with the woods, through which ran 
a footpath, leading from a neighborhood on the south 
line of Newbury, through her father’s sugar-camp, and 
down across the road near their house. The development 
in her of her womanliness was quite as much of a surprise 
to her as to others. She was always conscious of a reso- 


212 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


lute and daring spirit and temper. Her fancy had been 
excited, and her eyes dazzled, by the tales and splendor of 
Van Dusen ; but her heart had not been touched, and her 
fancy lay powerless under her cool will. Van Dusen had 
totally misapprehended her, as njost men and women in 
the world might. Many minor things in the conversation 
and conduct of Van Dusen had been noticed by her ; and 
the few things said of him had not been lost, and espe- 
cially the words of Ed Barns that afternoon were con- 
stantly in her mind ; and Ed had not driven out of her 
sight, ere she bitterly repented that she had not gone with 
him. She took her place in Van Dusen’s buggy with the 
determination that it should be the last time she would 
ever ride with him. She was glad when he turned into 
the obscure road, as no one would see her with him. She 
began to feel a vague, uncomfortable suspicion diming the 
recital of his story. At the point where she compelled 
hun to turn about, its meaning was felt by her, and with it 
the humiliation that she may have received the attentions 
of a married man, than which nothing could be more offen- 
sive to a Yankee girl of that day. 

Though dazzled by the display of gems and jewelry 
which were suddenly flashed on her vision, she was not 
for a moment shaken. She was spared the slightest ap- 
prehension of the worst possible which Van Dusen had 
resolved upon as the final means of securing and bearing 
away his victim and prize. 

When she gained the forest, her instinct directed her 
feet toward her father’s house. She found the path ere it 
was too dark to distinguish it, and ran with a speed that 
would outstrip pursuit, which she did not fear, and soon 
after she emerged into her father’s clearing. Between 
the outside fence and the house she loitered to gather her 
thoughts, and regain her composime. Am hour after her 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


213 


escape, apparently unconcerned, she entered her own 
home, where her father sat alone. 

“ Where is Ed Barns? ” he asked. 

“ I did not go with him.” 

‘ ‘ Where have you been ? ” 

“ I went out with Mr. Van Dusen.” 

“Oh, you did, heh ! Well, I must say for him he is 
about the poorest jedge of a boss I ever see.” 

‘ ‘ O father ! he is a villain ! His trade with you was a 
blind. He’s a married man, and awfully wicked ! ” She 
began quite firmly ; but her voice broke, and closed with 
a sob. 

Ere .her father recovered from his astonishment, she 
regained composure, and proceeded at once to give her 
version of the occurrences of the afternoon. Before she 
ended it, her father arose, got his hat, and, when she con- 
cluded, he took up a stout walking-stick, and ^prepared to 
go out. 

“Where are you going, father?” she asked, a little 
alarmed. 

“Up to Parker’s. I’ll git there by the time he doos,” 
with a tremor in his voice. 

“ You must not stir one step. ' He will not dare speak 
of this : we must not. Don’t you see, father, that it 
will be death to me ? ” 

He stood in thought fora moment. “Yes,” he said 
quietly, and sank into a chair. “ O Lu, my poor child ! ” 
he cried, holding out his hands to her. 

She sprang forward, threw her arms around his neck, 
and slowly sank to her knees by his side, and burst into 
sobs. 


214 


LU PETTENG ill’s PUNISHMENT. 


CHAPTER YII. 

No labor of Deacon Bams in the wide, fallow fields of 
his new residence provoked so much discussion and oppo- 
sition as his effort to establish sabbath schools. During 
the first summer and autumn he had organized two or 
three in Auburn, and one or two in the south part of New- 
bury. In this last place they were seriously disturbed, if 
not broken up. In Auburn the personal presence of the 
deacon somewhat overawed the opposition. The dis- 
turbances were created by some score of rude, noisy 
young men and boys, who were supposed to be backed 
and encouraged by several quite well-known men, stanch 
opposers of Orthodoxy as it was preached in that time. 
The opposition was aimed more at the Presbyterians than 
the less numerous and less pretentious Baptists.. The 
winter, with its cold storms and bad roads, had suspended 
the most of the Sunday schools. With the return of the 
warm season they were opened with renewed vigor ; and 
the deacon found quite an organized opposition almost 
in his own neighborhood, and had already taken legal ad- 
vice, and publicly announced to the disturbers, that, upon 
a repetition of their offences, they would be prosecuted. 
This produced considerable excitement ; and, on the Sun- 
day following, the schoolhouse, where the principal school 
was held, was the resort of quite an assemblage of the 
patrons of the school and their friends, the threatening 
disturbers, and many drawn by curiosity. The teachers 
and their pupils took early possession of the house, with 
them friends, and were anxiously awaiting the houi’ to 
commience* the exercises. 


LU pettengill’s punishment. ' 215 

This was on the Sunday following the incidents of the 
last chapter. Just before the hour of ten, and when 
quite a concourse of idlers and loafers was gathered 
about the house, with noisy groups in and about the 
doors, a two-horse wagon drove up, containing nine or 
ten neatly-dressed children, apparently in charge of a 
young lady, whom nobody at first recognized. AVay was 
made for the carriage, which drove up to the door, and 
the young woman with her charge entered the building. 
The unexpected entrance of so many strangers produced 
a little sensation, as the young girl at their head paused 
just inside the room, with the bashful children about her 
in a group, the smaller clinging to her hands and skirts. 
As she thus stood, and looked timidly and anxiously about, 
with her wonderful eyes, and fresh, innocent face kindling 
with a rising fiush, the elders in the room, suiq^rised at 
her entrance, were more surprised at her extreme loveli- 
ness. Two young ladies, of quite superior appearance, 
who were standing with a group of young girls and chil- 
dren, at once went forward to the blushing gii’l, and bade 
her good-morning with great cordiality. 

“ Are either of the Misses Barns here, — Miss Julia, or 
Miss Mary? ” asked the girl. 

“ I am Julia Barns, and this is Mary,’" said the taller 
of the two. 

‘ ‘ Oh ! you are the sister of Mr. Edward Barns ? ’ ’ ea- 
gerly, and blushing violently. 

“ Yes, I am Edward Barns’s sister, and this is his cousin 
Mary,” said Julia vivaciously, unable to take her eyes 
from the young girl’s face. 

“I,” said the fiushed girl, dropping her eyes, — “ I am 
Lu Pettengill. I ” — 

“ Lu Pettengill ! Are you Lu Pettengill?” more sur- 
prised than before, and regarding her with undisguisec 


216 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


admiration. “You blessed angel! ” she said, throwing 
her arms about her, and kissing her lips. “I shall love 
you at once.” 

Lu was for a moment overwhelmed at the unexpected 
warmth of this greeting. She stood in great awe of Ed’s 
sister and cousin. When released by Julia, she was 
kissed by Mary with scarcely less warmth, and finally 
said, with tears in her eyes, — 

“ I have brought these children from our neighborhood. 
We all want to join your sabbath school.” 

“We are very glad to have you, and will do every 
thing we can to make it pleasant for you,” said Julia 
warmly. 

At this moment a grave, stoutish, good-looking elderly 
man came forward from the back part of the room. 

“Why — how — who have we here?” he said, looking 
with open-eyed admiration at Lu. 

“This is Lu Pettengill,” said Julia; and, turning to 
the scarcely-recovered girl, “this is my uncle. Deacon 
Barns.” 

‘ ‘ Lu Pettengill ? Can it be possible I ’ ’ said the dea- 
con, taking her hand, and never removing his eyes from 
her face. 

“ She has brought all these children to our school,” 
said Julia. 

“Pardon, Miss Lu,” said the deacon, recovering him- 
self. “I was never so surprised in my life. I don’t 
wonder at Ed.” Whatever that may have meant. 

It was proposed to Lu to become a teacher, which she 
declined. She came as a scholar, and was finally placed 
in a Bible-class, with a row of young men and women. 
She brought her mother’s Bible with her, and took her 
designated place at once ; and, after a prayer and hymn, 
the exercises began. 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


217 


There had not been much communication between the 
Pettengill neighborhood and the more southerly settle- 
ments of the township ; and Lu, except as a name for all 
that was wild and untamable in girlhood, was unknown in 
them. Many present had seen her ; but not one, in this 
very lovely, modest girl, at first recognized her. One or 
two of the outside young men knew her as she entered ; 
and it was soon rumored about among them that she was 
present, and had entered the house with ‘ ‘ a flock of little 
cusses,” as one of the rude ones expressed it. Her pres- 
ence was disputed by others. A lively curiosity to verify 
the fact, as well as to see her, and how she comported her- 
self, induced most of those present to enter the house. 
Sure enough, there she was, sitting with her classmates, 
modest and demure, with downcast eyes, and a sweet 
flush on her cheek, and never, in all men’s eyes, so beau- 
tiful and lovely as now. Was it the presence of this girl 
whom so many knew, with her Bible, on this lovely May 
sabbath morning, which appealed to their better instincts ? 
or the threats of Deacon Barns, and the fear of the law? 
or the advice and the counsels of the more thoughtful of 
their own fellows and their friends, or of all these to- 
gether ? I know not : I only know that a more orderly 
and well-behaved assemblage of young men was rarely 
seen, who, when the exercises closed, with many ad- 
miring glances at the unconscious Lu, quietly dispersed. 
That was the last of the thi’eatened disturbances of the 
sabbath schools. 

After all, the life of Lu was at the best a lonely one. 
Without brothers or sisters, and living alone with her 
rather reticent father, the strong, deep qualities of her 
nature had never been called into action till within the last 
few months ; and she w'as surprised herself at the new 
emotions, and unwonted thoughts, the new and at first 


218 


Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


' strange life that she felt she had entered upon.. Long, 
earnest, and sad was the communion of father and daugh- 
ter on the evening of her adventure with Van Dusen, and 
such as they had never had before. For the first time 
the daughter was revealed to the father, and a revelation 
it was ; and when she arose from her knees at its close, 
and stood by him, he looked upon her with emotions of 
love, admiration, and wonder. Under a careless exterior, 
he, too, hid the elements of a strong nature ; and his deep- 
est emotions had been quite aroused. He now somewhat 
realized the neglect in which he had permitted this child 
to grow up, until he awoke to find her quite beyond his 
depth and experience, as she had shown herself equal to 
her own protection, — one to be rather looked up to than 
controlled or directed. 

On the following morning Lu arose grave and firm, 
and with a sense of greater nearness and tenderness for 
her father, very sweet to her. There was a religious vein 
in her nature, which, though often overlain in her hours of 
wild spirits and gayety, was yet never quite obstructed, 
nor did it lose all influence over her. Absolute truth, 
purity, and faith were the real foundations on which her 
mental and moral structure rested ; and this faith was nOw 
to be called into a more active and constant exercise. 

That was on Saturday, and drn-ing the day she made 
arrangements which she carried out on this Sunday morn- 
ing. It cost her much effort to face the Barnses. She had 
not intended to make any reference to Ed. His name 
came spontaneously from her lips. She was carried quite 
out of herself by the warmth of her reception by his rela- 
tives, and had hardly recovered when the school was 
dismissed for the day. Her new friends urged her to 
remain, and attend the church service in the afternoon. 
This she could not do,- and must retm'u the children to 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


219 


their homes. She promised to bring them all regularly 
in the future, and took leave of them for the time. 

On the Thursday following the Misses Barns went over 
and spent the day with Lu, who quite sustained the very 
favorable impression which she had made upon them. 
They found her full of bright, original thoughts, which 
she uttered almost shyly and with much naivete. The 
quick Julia observed, that, at the mention of the name of 
her brother by herself or cousin, Lu colorecl, and became 
grave ; that she was averse to speaking of him, and was 
apparently not only embarrassed, but pained, by any ref- 
erence to him. She had been told that he left for the 
West on the night of his last call upon her, and how dis- 
appointed they were at not seeing her at that time. Lu 
was sorry she could not go with him at that time, but 
entered into no explanation of the cause which prevented 
her. She dismissed the subject as soon as possible, with 
expressing in very warm terms the great obligation she 
was under to Edward. The cousins afterward recalled 
that this was the only instance during the day of her mak- 
ing any reference to him ; and, recalling much that he had 
said of Lu, they wondered not a little what could have 
occurred between them. 

Lu, with her children, attended the next sabbath 
school, as she continued to do. Her presence was the 
cause of quite constant attendance of several young peo- 
ple, — the youths to see her, and the girls — well, because 
the boys went, — many of whom, under her example and 
by her solicitation, joined the class of which she was a 
member. 

During the week following their call on her, Lu spent 
a day at the Barns homestead, and made the acquaintance 
of Mrs. Barns, a kind-hearted, genial woman, who did 
not go out much, and with whom she came to be a favor- 


220 


Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


ite. She found a house full of nice furniture, and many 
luxuries new to her. There were many fine engravings, 
and one or two paintings. What most attracted her were 
the books. Here she first saw Shakspeare, and Gold- 
smith, and “The Spectator.” They also had Irving’s 
“ Sketch-Book,” and Cooper’s “ Spy,” and two or three 
magazines. It was a delicious day of sweet surprises, — 
confusions, — which in after-months cleared and took the 
forms of heartfelt enjoyments and improvements. She 
found that the awful deacon was one of the most approach- 
able and kindest of men. He would keep his eyes on her, 
and talk about Ed, jvhich she managed to hear with as 
little color and distress as possible. 

This new life, these new and powerful influences, were 
precisely what the eager, hungry soul of the young girl 
most needed ; and she enjoyed and improved them to the 
utmost. The means of her father relieved her from the 
necessity of labor ; and partly to save her, and partly to 
furnish her with a companion, he hired her friend Sue 
Brown to take charge of the house. This enabled Lu to 
enter upon a somewhat systematic course of study and 
reading, under the direction of Julia Barns, who took 
upon herself the pleasant task of instructing her. In 
this way the summer and autumn glided rapidly towards 
the close of the year. 

As may be supposed, many of the young admirers and 
followers of Lu fell away from her. She was rarely at 
home on Sunday; and, although she had not joined the 
church, it was said that she had become pious. She kept 
up, so far as it depended on her, all her acquaintances ; 
and the development of her real womanhood, with the 
rapidly ripening hand of time, greatly improved her 
beauty and charm of manner. Yet she had suddenly 
passed out of her old circle beyond them. The most of 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


221 


them stood looking regretfully after her. A few of the 
better endowed and more fortunate, attracted by her, 
went with her. 

The sporting enterprise of the then West had estab- 
lished a race- course near Cleveland, and late in that 
autumn Alf Lee attended the races. There he met .Van 
Dusen, with two or three gamblers from the South-west. 
One of these, whom Alf half cultivated, told him some- 
thing of the history of that gentleman. He was a native 
of New York. His real name was Van Camp. He went 
South in early youth, well recommended ; had finally mar- 
ried the daughter of a wealthy man whom he robbed, and 
then deserted his wife, and became a gambler. Some two 
years before, he had committed an act which outlawed him 
from the sporting world, as he was already banished from 
the other. He disappeared until within the last few 
months, when the death of the party whom he had in- 
jured enabled him to return to some of his old haunts. 
Soon after learning these facts, Alf met Van Dusen, 
against whom he seemed to have a grudge, in a drinking- 
place, at a gambling-hole. Alf said something to him, 
and threw a glass of brandy and water into his face, when 
Van Dusen drew a knife. Before he could use it, Alf 
dealt him a powerful blow, which knocked him insensible. 
This occurred at a place where even a murder would have 
hardly provoked an arrest, and Alf walked away. When 
Van Dusen recovered, he disappeared, and was not heard 
of again in Ohio. Some rumor of Alf’s meeting him 
reached Parker’s, greatly exaggerating what occurred be- 
tween them ; but nobody save himself, and possibly Uncle 
Pettengill, ever knew the real cause of his assault. 


222 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


, CHAPTER VIII. 

Time ran on till the close of the ensuing summer. Ed 
Barns had been home for three weeks during winter. At 
that time Lu was absent with her father to visit an uncle’s 
family on the Holland Purchase, as the western part of 
New York was then called, and had gone back to Detroit 
before their return. 

This summer was one of much ill health, and sick- 
ness was quite prevalent through Southern Geauga, 
visiting and severely afflicting the Barnses. Both of the 
girls were ill, Julia quite seriously. Not long after, Mrs. 
Barns was taken. From the first, hers was a severe case. 
She had been slenderly for many years, and was illy pre- 
pared to resist the malarious form of disease, incident to 
the state of the country, then prevailing. 

Lu went at once to their assistance, and remained with 
them quite constantly through the whole period. Edward 
was written to, and unfortunately was absent up the Lakes, 
on business. Mary was confined but a few days ; and 
Julia soon threw off the disease, and began to mend early 
in September. From the first, the case of her aunt was 
critical. She grew rapidly worse ; and a council of phy- 
sicians, composed of old Dr. Goodwin, Dr. Ludlow, and 
Dr. Shepherd, pronounced her hopeless of recovery. 

When Ed reached home one afternoon, it was to find 
his aunt very low, with a prospect that she could hold out 
but a day or two. She had been to him a mother, receiv- 
ing him an infant from his dying mother’s arms. He and 
Julia, then but two or three years old, had been at once 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


223 


taken by herself and husband, and reared as their own. 
The intelligence of her illness reached him at Chicago, 
and he left at once. At Detroit he found another letter, 
announcing her hopeless condition ; and he hurried back 
on board the same steamer that brought him from Chi- 
cago. He found Mary and Lu with his aunt, who could 
do little more than recognize him. As he sank on his 
knees by her bedside, something he heard of her mur- 
mured words in which he once or twice caught the name 
of Lu. She soon after lost the power of speech ; and, as 
the next dawn began to kindle, she ceased to breathe. 

Towards evening of the fourth day after the funeral, 
Ed went to take leave of Lu. He was compelled to re- 
turn without time to mourn the dead, or console the living. 
Knowing and loving his aunt as a mother, the blow which 
dissolved the band of a beautiful household fell upon 
him with unusual severity. Eobust manhood at twenty- 
five, with all the affections of health, and all the springs 
and sources of life and ambition fresh and strong, may 
mourn deeply, and regret lastingly, but it cannot walk in 
darkness far. The night of its anguish for even the 
loss of a mother cannot last long. Distracted and over- 
whelmed as he was by the loss of his aunt-mother, he had 
nevertheless observed Lu. Through all the bitterness 
and sorrow of the household, she had been the one ray 
of earthly light and consolation. His strong, robust 
uncle was completely prostrated by the blow, and seemd 
to have no other stay or comforter. He would have her 
with the immediate mourners, and insisted that she should 
stand and walk by him. He was reminded that she 
could not take precedence of his daughter, and yielded. 
Julia was still too ill to be present at the funeral, and Lu 
took her place with Edward. She was now quite perfected 
in her virginal loveliness, and it was impossible she should 


224 


LU PETTENGILL’s . PUNISHMENT. 


escape general observation, even at a funeral ; and now in 
sables, on the arm of Edward, she was an especial object 
of notice and observation. Poor, unconscious girl ! she 
had never known a mother ; and the tender, intense yearn- 
ing of her whole nature for a mother’s love had only 
within the last few months, found rest and joy in the love 
of her she now mourned as sincerely, and almost as pro- 
foundly, as those bound to her by natural ties. Ed was a 
very fine, manly youth, fresh, and intellectual ; and the 
Wo could but be noticed and admired, especially by the 
sympathetic women and girls, with whom Mrs. Barns and 
the young ladies were immensely popular. Even the un- 
believing Dorcas Briggs said, “ I give it up now ! ” The 
remains were consigned to earth, the mourners returned, 
and the tender, thoughtful Lucille remained, ministering 
as she might, for two days after. On the third her father 
came and carried her home. 

What days of tender unreseive were these ! Ed con- 
dueted her to the earriage, and on the way asked if he 
might come over the next day, and say good-by, as he 
must go on the following morning. 

Of course he might, if he wished. 

He did, very much. 

During this day he had a long conversation with Julia, 
carried on in low, earnest voices. At one time she said 
to him, “ I cannot tell you a word about it : you must find 
out for yourself. I would not even tell you what I think, 
if I had any decided thoughts. You know what we all 
wish. It was the dying wish of our aunt.” 

“I know,” said the young man gravely. “If wishes 
could win, how happy we would all be in this world!” 
rising, and walking rather sadly away. 

And now he was on his way on his leave-taking mission. 
He had lingered all day, till late, and had more than once 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


225 


been reminded of it by Mary. Did he prefer the kindly 
shadow of evening ? Did he for any reason wish to avoid 
her presence, as fearing the result? I cannot tell. I only 
know that the day was well spent when he emerged from 
the woods in the rear of his old schoolhouse, where he 
paused for a few moments before turning his steps along 
the road to Mr. Pettengill’s house, a fourth of a mile dis- 
tant. On approaching it, he found the appearance of 
things at Lu’s homestead greatly changed. The house 
and blinds were newly painted, the yard was paled in 
neatly, and a general air of care and taste pervaded the 
whole. He saw Lu in the yard, pulling weeds and grass 
from among her flowers, — a labor which her recent ab- 
sence had made quite necessary. As she arose from a 
bending position, at his approach, he very plainly saw a 
heightened color in her face, and managed to mark how it 
gave place to an unwonted pallor soon after, which, in 
turn, yielded to the usual healthful hue. She merely arose, 
and stood by the margin of a flower-bed until he came to 
her, when, after a few commonplace words, he aided her 
in completing her task with her flowers. From there they 
sauntered to a peach-tree bending under its burden of 
ripe early Yorks. Delicious as they were, the young man 
did not even care to attempt one, and they moved around 
to a little porch on the east side, whose posts and trellis- 
work were hidden with thick vines still in rank leafage. 
Lu invited her visitor to a seat under the porch ; but he 
contented himself with one on the projecting floor, while 
she sat down on a low chair. 

“Lu,” said the young man as if carelessly, “do you 
^remember the last time I was here? ” 

“I think I do,” answered the girl a little uneasily. 
The young man seemed not to notice her manner, and 
went on : — 


226 


Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


“I came on pui'pose to take you over to our house. 
I had been obliged to break my word to come the day be- 
fore, and you would not go with me, for my punishment.” 

“And my own, Mr. Barns,” in a tone that brought his 
eyes, which had purposely wandered from her face, back 
to it. “I should have gone with you ; and, after you left 
me, I repented. I would have run after you, if I could 
have found my bonnet.” 

As she lifted her eyes at the close of this franlc con- 
fession, the eyes of the youth turned away again to hide 
the expression which he knew her words had produced in 
them. 

“ It is well you had mislaid it,” he replied with affected 
persiflage. “Had you gone with me then, I should cer- 
tainly have said a great deal of nonsense to you. I 
should have told you of all my folly — all my love for 
you,” with his eyes still from her. 

“Mr. Barns,” said the young girl after a start, with 
something cold and severe in her tone, which brought his 
eyes back at once, “ surely you are not -authorized to speak 
to me in this light way.” 

“ In this light way ! Not authorized ! ” cried the youth, 
springing to his feet, and approaching her almost impetu- 
ously. “ Not authorized? My love is its own authority. 
O Lucille!” now beyond all restraint, “I love you. I 
have always loved you, not lightly, deeply, profoundly, 
with heart and soul.” A pause. “You shrank from 
me, chilled me, almost killed me with your indifference.” 

When he arose and turned to her, with this burst of 
vehement passion, the young girl covered her face with 
her hands, and bent with uncontrollable agitation. When 
he ceased, she remained bowed, with tear-drops stealing 
through her fingers, and falling. 

“O Lucille!” with a repentant voice. “I have 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


227 


frightened, I have offended you. Surely such love as 
' mine will not hurt you. It would only serve and cherish 
you.” This he said bending over her. In her silence he 
still bent lower and nearer her. He ventured to take one 
of the small wrists, as if to remove the hand. The tears 
had quite ceased ; but the hand would not yield to the 
very gentle force applied to it. Slowly he sank by her 
side, on his knees, only to be nearer her. 

“ Lu — Lucille, Miss Pettengill — tell me I have not 
offended you. You will forgive me? ” No answer. His 
left arm somehow- found its way around a slender waist, 
which did yield a little to the gentle drawing of the youth 
towards himself. 

‘ ‘ Miss Pettengill ? ” ' 

“ Call me Lu,” very small, from between the fingers. 

“ Lu, sweetest, dearest Lu, you do love me — some — 
just a little? ” 

This was said to the little pinky shell-like ear. The 
hand had yielded, had been kissed. A delicate, peachy 
cheek was exposed, and the lips fastened on it. Slowly 
the young, warm, tear-stained cheek turned, till two ripe 
lips just touched his own, and brushed through a very 
love of a whisker that adorned a manly cheek, and went 
down on his shoulder, and an arm very gently and very 
palpably circled his neck. 

“O Edward” frona the shoulder. “ I do love you — 
not a little — with my whole heart.” 

Then came sobs, at first quick and violent. The youth 
did not attempt to check them. He supported her in his 
arms, and merely sought to soothe her. When he at- 
tempted to speak, his voice was broken with emotion, and 
his own tears had mingled with hers. It was less than a 
minute ; and Lu, controlling herself, lifted her head, still 
drooping.^ “O Edward! you will not love me the less 
fpr this giving myself sq utterly away in an instant? ” ■ 


228 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


“ Not love you the less ! What do you mean, dearest ? ” 
“Why, at your first word,” still hiding her hot cheek, 
‘ ‘ I was so utterly surprised ! I could not help it, 
Edward, ’ ’ plaintively. 

“ Did you not know, had it never occurred to you, that 
I loved you? Did you never dream it? ” 

‘ ‘ I had never dreamed it ; and I was so ashamed to 
have loved you — there, Edward! you know it all now.” 
And she became mute, with her head quite erect, and her 
face noV a little pallid. 

“ Do I know it all, you precious? You shall tell it all 
to me. I loved you, Lu, or I began to, from the night I 
first met you at Webster’s.” 

“ Indeed 1 Did you? ” eagerly. 

“ In very deed, Lucille.” 

‘ ‘ Bless you ! Bless you ! It always seemed to me such 
a sin and shame for a girl to lose her heart before it was 
asked,” she said. “I did not know when mine was 
gone, nor how. When I first met you, Edward, I thought 
you were plain. The more I saw you, the better your face 
pleased me, until you were my ideal. I never thought it 
was love. I thought that, when it came, would be 
sudden-striking, that one would know at once. My love 
for you was like sinking into deep, sweet sleep and 
dreams of heaven, when I thought I was awake ‘all the 
time. That thing that happened in school awoke me, and 
I knew I had been all the time dreaming. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ O Lu ! will you ever forgive me for that ? ’ ’ 

“ I did forgive you ere you punished me.” 

“I had to do it. I loved you then, Lu — knew I did. 
I felt guilty over it, thinking everybody knew it. I must 
seem to strike this precious little hand,” kissing its pinky 
palm. “I would have sooner struck my own hand off. 
When I went to yom' house that night, it was with the de- 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


229 


termination to tell you how I loved you, so that you might 
see and know all, why I did it. How coldly and proudly 
you met me ! and yet how you rushed between me and 
your father ! and then you stole away. When I next saw 
you, you seemed changed. Up till then I thought you 
loved me, your heart was mine.” 

“And I, Edward, only awoke to know that I — that I 
did love you ; and somehow I thought and felt that you 
did not, could not, love rne, or you would have spared me. 
I was not a woman to be loved (no man would strike the 
woman he loved) : I was only a child to be punished, dis- 
graced. I never got over that idea till now.” 

“How strange, Lu, that we should have so misappre- 
hended each other I ’ ’ 

“ It seems strange now : it was very reasonable then.” 

“ And yet Julia and Mary knew what my feelings were 
towards you, Lucille.” 

“ So I see now. But when they hinted something to 
me, I repelled it, and ” — 

“ They both thought as did I, that you had no lover-like 
feeling for me. I intended to tell you frankly and truly 
my whole heart before I went away last year. I thought 
it was due to you to know what my feelings were. I 
should have done it when I last came for you ; but you 
know what occurred between us.” 

“ I remember it as well as you can ; and, Edward, one 
of the very reasons why I refused to go with you — for I 
did not much care for my promise to that man — was the 
fear that in some way I should betray my real feelings to 
you. I should have died had that happened.” 

“ No, you would not, Lu. I should have anticipated 
you. Besides, what could it have mattered? a true lover’s 
heart and arms would have received you. And I would 
only have loved you the more. How sweet and precious 
it would have been ! ” 


230 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


“I have behaved badly enough now, Edward,” as if 
not well pleased with herself. ‘ ‘ I want to tell you what 
happened to me on the evening after you left me. Oh, 
you must have a seat ! Have you been all this time on 
your knees ? ’ ’ 

“All the time on my knees to you — why not? And 
what a blessing has been mine ! ’ ’ 

“ When you kneel again, Edward, I shall kneel with 
you.” 

The young man arose ; and when he was seated, as 
much to his liking as circumstances and Lu permitted, 
she franlily told him of her adventure with Van Dusen. 

It was humiliating and most painful to the poor child, 
and she told it simply and bravely as the reader knows 
it. Surprise, anger, terror, and wrath ruled her listener, 
as he took in the details and possibilities disclosed to 
him. He was unable to retain his seat, and strode about 
the little porch intensely excited. 

‘ ‘ Alone with that villain at a _ remote and secluded 
place, with night, the forest, and he armed ? O Lucille ! 
My God, my God ! What an escape ! What a heroine 
you are, Lucille! ” rushing back, and throwing his arms 
about her. “ I will never leave you alone again for a 
minute.” As his wrath subsided, she told him of mak- 
ing her way home, and recounting the story to her father. 

Day had lain down and died its rosy death in the west, 
and the full, yellow moon was looking placidly upon the 
lovers, quite high up in the east, ere this stage of their 
memorable interview was reached. 

“This little hand,” said Ed, lifting it in one of his 
own, and laying it upon the other, “which I tried to 
strike, and could not, this is to be mine, is it not, dear- 
est? ” 

“You have it now, have you not, love? ” 


Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


231 


‘‘ I am, then, to keep it with all that it promises? ’’ 

“ With all that it promises.” 

“ And this shall be our mutual pledge,” said the young 
man with fervor, pressing his lips upon lips that frankly 
met them. 

Sue had her tea ready for some time. She knew that 
Ed and Lu were on the porch. She watched for the ap- 
proach of Mr. Pettengill, who had gone over to the State 
Road ; and he was certain to go around, and enter by that 
porch. It was dark when he reached the front-gate. She 
ran and intercepted him. 

“Oh, you must not go round there!” looking very 
wise. 

“Why, Sue?” 

“ Lu and Mr. Barns are around there.” 

“ What are" they doing round there? ” 

“ What do you suppose, Mr. Pettengill? I think they 
are making a trade ; and, if they do, oh 1 won’t it be 
glorious? ” much excited. 

Uncle Pet reserved his opinion until he should be better 
informed, and walked gravely in at the front-door, pro- 
duced a Geauga “ Republican and Whig,” and sat down 
to its weekly hash. The pleased and expectant Sue, who 
could neither sit nor stand, finally consulted Uncle Pet as 
to the propriety of calling them in to tea ; and when he 
finally concurred, she approached the door with many 
preliminary sounds, after the manner of the considerate 
Mrs. Nickelby, to announce her approach. She came just 
as the compact had been sealed, as I have described, and 
was blessed with the sight of the lovers standing very 
near each other. 

“ What is it. Sue?” asked Lu, as she appeared in the 
open door. 

“Ahem! tea is ready. Your father has been home 
some time.” 


232 


Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


My father ! Oh ! I forgot.” 

“Good-evening, Miss Brown,” said Ed, advaneing 
very cordially. ‘ ‘ How do you do ? ” giving her his hand. 
“Will you ask Mr. Pettengill to step this way?” Lu 
maintained her ground by her lover. 

“Mr. Pettengill,” said the young man, upon the ap- 
pearance of Lu’s father in the moonlight, “I entertain 
the most devoted attachment for your daughter ; and she 
has just assured me that it is fully reciprocated. We 
have promised ourselves to each other. I am quite in a 
condition to make her a home — will you permit me to 
become her husband ? ’ ’ 

“It is a very grave thing, it is, to marry, Mr. Barns. 
I have no doubt you have quite made up your minds,” he 
answered. 

‘ ‘ I know I have wanted her for my wife ever since I 
first saw her. I did. not know that I had much chance 
with her till now,” Ed answered very earnestly. 

“I lost ’er mother,” said Uncle Pet, “before she was 
two year old, and I never thought of another wife.” 

“ Of course you did not,” replied the youth : “ she was 
like her daughter,” very confidently and decidedly. 

“Lu,” said her father, addressing her, “do you love 
this young man well enough to go and make a new home 
with him? ” 

“ O father ! ” putting an arm about him, “ you will go 
with me. I love him very, very much. More than I 
can say.” 

“ It is parfectly right, my children. I’ve had a notion 
how it would turn out with you two,” said the sagacious 
man. “There, there, that will do,” returning Lu’s kiss, 
and ^ cordially shaking the young man’s proffered hand. 
“You are at home here, Mr. Barns, and Site’s tea 
a-coolin’.” 


LU pettengill’s punishment. 


233 


On their way in, Sue had Lu to herself for a moment, 
and pressed and kissed her with an energy that her lover 
had not ventured to exercise towards her, ardent and 
fervent as he was. 

Had any one told Ed that night, at the tea-table where 
Lu presided, that she could ever do it more perfectly and 
gracefully, he would have been incredulous. Had one 
told him that the time would ever come when he would 
observe every motion of her person, every varying 
shade of smile, glance, and expression of her face, with 
abated interest, he would have smiled in silent derision. 
It would be a difficult thing to imagine a prettier picture 
than this virginal love, sitting at the small tea-table, with 
her father opposite, her lover at her right, and Sue in a" 
subdued state of chronic blush, laugh, and titter. Sitting 
in profile to Ed, his ardent admiration was less embarrass- 
ing to her, with her splendid head a little bent under 
the weight of her happiness, and her face, never over-col- 
ored, changing with the varying flush of her still fluttering 
heart, with her lifting and dropping eyes, and low-spoken 
words. 

O Ed ! your fruit is in its untouched dew, its first bloom. 
It never can be lovelier. Beware to clutch it too eagerly, 
though no rudeness can rob it of its inherent delicacy and 
flavor. 

He did not return to his uncle’s that night. He did not 
start for Detroit the next morning. 

“Should you not go?” queried the conscientious Lu. 
“Is it not your duty ? ’ ’ 

“Is it my duty? Think what a change I have met 
since my plans were made, — a change involving our two 
lives, from which a new home, new lives it may be, will 
spring. Should I not withdraw two or three days from 
not very ui’gent old business to these newer and infinitely 


234 LU pettengill’s punishment. 

greater interests? Surely, dearest, we may have a little 
time to make each other’s acquaintance. Duty, indeed ! 
I think my duty now is here,” placing himself by her side. 
The young girl had nothing to oppose to this cogent put- 
ting of the case, so naturally and manfully was it done, 
and such exquisite pleasure did the thought of his pro- 
longed stay give her — two or three whole days ! 

Stricken sorely as was the household of Deacon Barns, 
its inmates, including the deacon, felt a very abiding inter- 
est in Ed’s visit to Lu. 

When it was known in the morning that he did not 
return the night before, this interest had a touch of anxi- 
ety in it. 

“He will not go to Cleveland to-day,” said the 
deacon : “ that’s certain.” 

“ He may have gone,” suggested Mary. 

“Perhaps he got lost going through the woods,” said 
Julia, smiling. 

think he’ll find himself all right,” said the deacon, 
showing that this would relieve him considerably. ‘ ‘ There 
is no doubt he went on that errand, before he went away 
last year. He was very much taken with her, I’m sure.” 

- ‘ ‘ But you are to remember, father, that there is an- 

other party in the case. A man can’t alway have it his 
own way.” 

“ And that he was in some way rebuffed, and went off 
under a cloud,” added Julia. The girls never heard of 
the attentions of Van Dusen to Lucille. 

“ But didn’t Lu come right straight to us? ” asked the 
deacon. 

“ She came to sabbath school, and inquired for us,” 
said Mary ; ‘ ‘ but she would never answer either of us a 
word about Ed, nor has he ever confided much to us.” 

“ She is a deep girl,” said Julia, “ and proud and sen- 


LU pettengill’s punishmekt. 


235 


sitive. If she really loves Ed, as I think she does, she 
would act just as she has till Ed asks her.” 

“Glory! ’’exclaimed Mary, jumping up, and running 
to the door. “ Here they come I — Ed and Lu, and Lu’s 
father driving the carriage. It must be aU right ! ” run- 
ning, and throwing open the large gate. 

As the reader knows, it was all right. 

I would like to linger over it and tell of what followed, 
— the happy tears and kisses of the girls, deepened by the 
shadow of their great loss ; how the deacon in a hearty 
way took Lu in his arms and blessed her, and shook hands 
with Uncle Pet three or four times. 

“Here’s one trade you and I have made, Mr. Petten- 
gill,” he said : “I trade my nephew-son for your daughter. 
What do you say to it? ” 

‘ ‘ That it is a pretty fair bargain, in which both on us 
have the best on’t. It was a trade that swopped itself, 
though ; I reckon. Deacon Barns.” 

“Yes, father,” said Lu, with a little sparkle of her old 
archness, alway so fascinating, “ I believe you never made 
one whittling in the whole of it.” 

“No: I should ha’ been a clumsy hand at carvin’ a 
heart, if I’d ’a tried.” 

That was Friday morning, and Lu’s father took Ed to 
Cleveland the following Sunday afternoon. 

The life of Lu was fortunate and happy ; but the mem- 
ory of the hours from the approach of Ed to her, on that 
memorable evening, till the hour of his leaving her, re- 
mained first and sweetest in her memory. 

They were married the ensuing Christmas Eve. A 
great ball was given at Parker’s on the following New 
Year, where I met them. I knew Uncle Pet quite well, 
had seen Lu many times in her wild state, and, save by 
the occasional turn and fiash of her splendid eyes, I could 

t 


236 


Lu pettengill’s punishment. 


see nothing to identify her with the lovely and stylish 
woman before me. During the evening I observed her 
near the music-stand, showing Alf a very beautiful watch 
and chain, the gift of her husband. I stood near, and 
heard her say to him that he had been one of the truest 
friends she had ever had. 

I also saw Dorcas and Miss Bradley there with their 
set, but did not hear their comments. 

' A year or two afterwards Barns removed from Detroit 
to Cleveland. Under his influence Uncle Pet sold his 
farm in Auburn, and invested the proceeds in property 
near the city, which became very valuable, and was long 
since swallowed up by the devouring town, and the old 
man became rich. 

During the first summer of my residence in Cleveland I 
wanted to see Uncle Pet, who, I was told, was an impor- 
tant witness in a land case in Geauga, in which I was 
engaged. At the office of Barns & Co., on the river, I 
was referred to the residence of the head of the firm on 
Prospect Street. The bell at a very beautiful house was 
answered by the mistress in person, a tall, commanding, 
and one of the few really beautiful women J had ever 
seen.* She knew me; and her frank, gracious manner 
helped me to identify her. 

“ Can this be Lu Pettengill? ” I asked involuntarily. 

“I am Lu Pettengill,” with the old saucy flash of her 
eyes. 

She invited me in, seemed glad to see me, showed me 
her children, — Ed, a fine boy of eight, and Lu, a wild 
little romp of five, with the eyes of the mother. We had 
a pleasant talk of old Geauga times. To my inquiry of 
her father, she said she thought I would find him at 
Greer’s Stable on Bank Street, and added with a laugh, 
that she presumed there, was “a horse-trade on foot, as 
he went off with a bit of pine in his hand.” 


LU pettengtll’s punishment. 


237 


When I found him at the indicated point, he was put- 
ting the last touch to an Indian hatchet and a dealer in 
horses at the same time. Subsequently Lu, with her hus- 
band, son, and daughter, made the tour of Europe ; and 
she was everywhere acknowledged as one of the most 
beautiful of American women. 


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a 



EDITH GROVER. 


CHAPTER I. 

GIYES AN ACCOUNT OF A RIDE IN AN OLD-FASHIONED 
STAGE-COACH, WHICH ONLY GIVES COLOR. 

Had any one witnessed the first meeting of Miss Grover 
and the young M.D., he would have supposed even a 
slight acquaintance impossible between them. At that 
time Dr. Field had been at the Corners three or four 
months ; and no young man in all the country ever secured 
a worse reputation in so short a time, — a fact of which he 
seemed unaware. It was very much against him that he 
was at the Corners at all. It was a geographical centre 
of quite a populous region, having no resident physician, 
and with roads crossing, which rendered it eligible ; but 
no little village in the three counties cornering near there 
had so hard a name. 

• In addition to the then common vices of excessive 
drinking, profanity, and the coarseness of the average 
people of that early day, men more than suspected of 
being engaged in the crimes of passing counterfeit money, 
horse-stealing, and the offences peculiar to new communi- 
ties, — men who wore good clothes, rode good horses, and 
had plenty of money, and about whom common folk knew 

239 


240 


EDITH GROVER. 


little, — found harborage there, with whom the popular 
voice associated the doctor. He boarded at one of the 
not very reputable taverns of the burg, was said to be in- 
temperate, and had signalized his advent with an abusive 
assault upon an old and widely-esteemed physician of the 
neighborhood, with whom he had been called into con- 
sultation over a badly fractured limb of one of the Wilkins 
boys, and it was said that he drove the elder doctor away 
from his patient. There was also a tale of scandal, con- 
necting his name with a young girl who had recently 
made her appearance at the Corners with a baby in her 
arms, seeking him, from a distant part of the country ; 
and it was certain that he carried her and her child away 
openly. 

It was even said that he doctored cows and horses, — a 
matter for the unsparing sarcasm of old Dr. Warren, 
whom he assaulted, and of Dr. Palmer, who had for years 
monopolized the practice of a wide region. These physi- 
cians, however much and often they quarrelled with each 
other, were close allies against all medical poachers on 
their preserves, and gave wide cii’culation to all the ru- 
mors adverse to young Field. 

In the afternoon of a dismal, rainy day late in Septem- 
ber, the heavy, lumbering stage-coach drew up at the 
stage-house at the Corners ; and, just as it was moving off 
again, the driver was hailed to stop for Dr. Field. In the 
closed carriage he had a single passenger, — Miss Grover, 
on her way home from a two or three weeks’ visit with 
friends in Warren. She had never met Dr. Field; but 
both of the medical gentlemen referred to were on pleas- 
ant terms at her father’s house, some four miles distant ; 
and she had heard all the stories concerning the proposed 
passenger, in their latest and most embellished forms. 
She occupied the back-seat ; and the odious name reached 


A EIDE IN AN OLD-FASHIONED STAGE-COACH. 241 

her ear, awakening the abhorrence of a pure woman of re- 
finement for a man of such a reputation. 

The coach stopped ; and the young man, in the hurried 
manner of one who wished to occasion the least delay, 
opened the door and sprang in, when he became for the 
first time aware of the presence of a lady, and knew at 
once that it must be Miss Grover by the description he 
had before received of her. His entrance was hasty ; but 
he lifted his hat with, “ I beg pardon for my rudeness,” 
in a voice and with a grace that would in an ordinary 
man have atoned the offence, and won favor. He placed 
himself on the front-seat, facing the young lady. She was 
no prude. Her sense of propriety was not aggressive. 
No flash of virtuous scorn lit up- her eyes, nor was there 
an alarmed ruffle of draperies ; but with her face to the 
window, and a cold, serene indifference, she seemed 
utterly unaware of the entrance or of the presence of the 
young man. She apparently neither saw his person, nor 
heard his voice, was as unconscious of his existence as if 
he had never taken form. At first he could not but 
choose to look at her. No man could. Few were so 
worthy to be seen, or would better reward a study. 

The stage resumed its course ; and mean houses, log 
barns, squalid hovels, crooked rail fences^ stumpy fields, 
the rudest outside thing which they passed, was of vastly 
more interest to the absorbed young lady than the young 
gentleman so near her, and who in his person was for his 
sex scarcely less strffling than herself. For nearly a mile 
an ungloved, unjewelled hand, fair and beautiful, lay care- 
lessly over the broad strap in front of the lady, which 
formed the back for the unoccupied middle seat. This 
was suddenly withdrawn from sight. Its exposure was, 
in fact, a sort of treason : it in a way gave aid and comfort 
to the enemy. The yoiing doctor could not help but study 
it. 


242 


EDITH GROVER. 


Whatever were the vices and faults of the young man, 
quickness and keenness of perception, and manly sensibil- 
ity, were among his qualities. He had hardly possessed 
himself of his seat, ere the atmosphere which congealed 
the young lady was fully appreciated by him ; and with a 
psychological acuteness, the gift of some minds, he was 
quite aware that he was the cause of the low temperature. 
For a moment an increase of color came to his pale face, 
and slowly died out of it. He quite comprehended the 
situation, and with the fine instinct of the gentleman, 
resolving that this enforced companionship should occa- 
. sion the least annoyance possible to the lady, he turned 
quietly from, her, and devoted himself to an absorbing 
study of the outside world from the window most remote 
from her. 

The first mile was a steady ascent, and from the sum- 
mit there was a down-hill of two more to the river road, 
on which the stage would turn ; and Miss Grover would 
leave it three-fourths of a mile beyond the corner, when it 
would cross the river on its way to Cleveland. Was the 
time of this passage long, or short, to the travellers ? Did 
they, in fact, withdraw themselves so remotely asunder? 
Was the flush on the face of the young man one of shame 
under a consciousness that he merited severe indifference 
from the pure of the sex? or was it anger or aroused 
pride ? What occupied the thoughts of either ? Perhaps 
we shall never know. I shall attempt to relate only what 
was said and done. Whatever may have been the subject 
of the young man’s thoughts, his conduct seemed to be 
governed by considerations of what, under all circum- 
stances, is due from man to woman, though I fear it may 
not meet the approbation of some quite young gentlemen 
of this day. 

At length the stage drew up at the point where the lady 


A EIDE IN AN OLD-FASHIONED STAGE-COACH. 243 

was to leave it, near ’ which stood an open one-horse 
wagon, driven by a small boy, which would convey her 
home. As the coach stopped, Dr. Field quietly disen- 
gaged the broad strap referred to, turned back the middle 
seat which obstructed her passage, opened and held the 
door for Miss Grover’s exit, and stood with a proffered 
hand to aid her descent. Coldly she stepped down to the 
ground, as sublimely unconscious of his presence as before 
he entered the carriage. The stage had gone a^mile out 
of its regular route to deliver her at this point. The driver 
was wet, weary, and cross. He surlily removed her trunk 
from the stage-boot, set it by the roadside, and remounted 
his box.’ The boy and young lady approached the trunk, 
apparently too heavy for their united strength. She was 
about to make the effort to raise it into the wagon, when, 
in an indescribable manner to which few men were equal. 
Dr. Field, who had not entered the coach, intervened. 

“ It is a man’s right,” he said, “ to relieve a woman of 
such labor.” 

The voice, though low and soft, had nevertheless a 
man’s masterful will in it, and his air most respectful, 
assertive, and commanding, as well. The young lady was 
taken by surprise, and, as every woman would, instinc- 
tively acknowledged his claim, and made way for him. 

The heavy trunk seemed to rise at his touch, and take 
its place in the Grover wagon, when without a look at the 
still surprised young woman, or giving her a chance to 
thank him had she wished to, he relieved her of the 
embarrassment of her position, and sprang back to the’ 
stage. With a sharp word of reproof to the driver for his 
churlishness, he re-entered it, and was driven away. 

The young woman, with suffused cheeks, silently took 
a seat in the wagon by the side of the pygmy driver, who, 
to make sure of the reins, had scrambled in, secured them, 
and, whip in hand, was ready for a start homeward. 


244 


EDITH GROVER. 


“George, why did not some one else come forme?’* 
she asked a little sharply. 

“ ’Cos I come,” was the prompt answer. 

“ Oh, I see ! so you did. But why did not some one 
come with you ? Where is Mr. Edwards ? ’ ’ 

“ Gone to Cleveland.” 

“ Where was my father? ” 

“ Oh ! he went with Edwards.” 

“ Where was Walter? He might have come with you.’* 

“ Walter’s been havin’ one o’ his turns, you know.” 

“Oh, dear ! ” with a sudden sinking of the heart. 

“ Didn’t Dr. Field put in the trunk, I’d like to know? ” 
asked the urchin, who felt these questions to be so many 
personal reflections. 

“ Yes ; but if he had not? ” 

“I guess we could a’ took out yer things, and sot the 
trunk in, and put ’em in agin ; couldn’t we? ” 

“Of course, George. How inventive you are! I 
should not have thought of that. You are a genius,* 
George,” smiling. 

“I hope Dr. Field will lick that ’are driver, though. 
He told him he deserved a thrashin’,” said George, quite 
placated. 

The young lady then asked about her mother, and the 
details of home-life in her absence, and made inquiries of 
George’s mother and the baby. They soon gained the 
summit of a swell which commanded a view of the Grover 
mansion and the fair, wide domain that lay about it. Its 
western boundary was the beautiful Chagrin Fiver, which, 
flowing among hills and highlands, has no marshes on its 
borders. On that side it made a wide sweep around, with 
a northern course toward the lake, twenty miles away. 
Some hundreds of acres of cultivated land, in every stage 
of improvement, from the rude, stumpy new clearing on 


A KIDE IN AN OLD-FASHIONED STAGE-COACH. 245 


the distant margin of the receding forest, to the beautiful 
lawn surrounding the house, in the midst of wide sweeps of 
pasture-lands, shorn, stubbly wheat-fields, large expanses 
of corn, extensive orchards, and broad river-meadows, 
the whole sloping toward the river traversed here and 
there with silvery threads of spring brooks, finding their 
sources in the high lands, and their limpid courses to the 
river, with many liquid whispers and murmurs. Occa- 
sional groves of a second growth of native forest-trees 
gave fine effect to the whole, with many gentle swells of 
the surface, all inclining to the west and south ; and now, 
as the western clouds opened golden doors to the late 
afternoon sun, the whole lighted up under the appreciative 
eyes of the home-journeying girl with a radiance of light, 
color, and warmth, which quite dispelled the something 
more than vexation, if not of humiliation, of the last 
half-hour. There, surrounded with a tastefully planted- 
out growth of maple, elm, and ash, crowning a natural 
swell of the grounds, the fourth of a mile from the high- 
way, was the mansion-house, — the centre constructed of 
the finest of Ohio freestone, with wings of brick, — and the 
spacious stables, barns, and outbuildings of one of the 
wealthiest farmers (if such her father was to be called) 
of the then West. From its front to the west, .the eyes 
of the maiden wandered with a fond admiration over the 
intervening domain, to the river that fiowed under the 
shadow of a maple-forest that stood in its primitive gran- 
deur on the high, and, in many places, abrupt western 
bank. She had been absent but three weeks, and was 
surprised at the warm glow of pleasure with which she 
returned. 


246 


EDITH GKOVEK. 


CHAPTER n. 

GIVES A PLEASANT ACCOUNT OF THE GROVERS. 

William Walter Grover was an offshoot of an old 
Massachusetts strain of men, of hard, vigorous sense, 
and thrifty lives. Several generations of the males gradu- 
ated from youths of wildness to manhoods of success and 
usefulness. They stood strong and well in their several 
generations. No one of them ever achieved that promi- 
nent success which often dwarfs a successor, as no one 
fell below the Grover standard of fair eminence, while 
all together had accumulated a stock of . credit which made 
a family inheritance of honor and consideration. William 
Walter followed the family rule. For his day, he had 
a fair academic education, rather sm’passed the family 
reputation for wildness, and barely escaped grave errors 
in his early manhood. His fortunate marriage with a 
young woman of rare personal advantages, exceptional 
mental endowments, and force of character, to whom 
he was attached with the strength of his tenacious race, 
was the principal means of giving that bent to his life 
and fortunes which so invariably attended the careers 
of his predecessors. His own patrimony mostly dis- 
appeared with his youth. His wife had inherited a fine 
tract of land in the woods of the Western Reserve, and 
he was endowed with a vigorous, working enterprise and 
ambition, and commanded ready means enough to gather 
teams, wagons, drivers, laborers, and goods, with which 
he traversed the hundreds of intervening miles, and es- 


A PLEASANT ACCOUNT OF THE GROVERS. 247 


tablished himself in the forest that encumbered every foot 
of the domain. That was more than twenty years before 
the opening of this tale. A part of the land was sold on 
advantageous terms, and the proceeds devoted to the im- 
provement of the residue. The sagacious and enterpris- 
ing are usually the lucky. Fortune is apt to find them 
out, and range on their side. These twenty odd years 
had translated the forest-land into the rich and cultivated 
estate which we glanced over a few minutes ago. Farming 
by no means wholly absorbed Mr. Grover, or all of his now 
largely increased capital. He early invested in the infant 
city of Cleveland, owned extensively in vessel property 
on the lakes, was a holder of bank stock, director in one 
bank, and widely and favorably known. He was also a 
sagacious, public-spirited man, and gave large influence 
to the various enterprises for the development of the New- 
England colony that was so deeply striking its roots into 
the soil, and extending its influence widely over the young 
State of which it was an important part. He was of a 
fine and commanding person and popular address, and 
had more than once been urged, though not tempted, to 
enter the often disastrous vortex of politics as a candidate 
for office. 

Mrs. Grover developed into the accomplished matron. 
More intellectual than her husband, with literary tastes 
and instincts, she was a vast aid to him on the mental 
and spiritual side of his nature, and contributed to a cer- 
tain elevation of character which redeemed him from the 
sordid pursuit of ‘mere money-getting-; and his enlightened 
efforts in behalf of schools and the higher institutions 
of learning, which distinguished the first settlers of the 
Reseiwe, w6re due to her influence. The most charitable 
of women and the most approachable, she never entirely 
forgot that she was of an old colonial family of honor- 


248 


EDITH GEOVEK. 


able historic mention. After the birth of her second 
child, she never recovered the full vigor of her former 
health. The recoil of the pain, and the shadow of the 
peril of that event, never entirely disappeared. Her step 
lingered, her spiiit flagged, though she escaped the chain 
of invalidism, or felt its weight but lightly. 

Edith was nearly three years of age, a bright, rollick- 
ing child, with immense dark eyes, olive skin, and almost 
black hair, when she was carried into the woods ; from 
seven to fourteen an awful tomboy, as her father’s daugh- 
ter needs must be ; at seventeen, a tall, dark, splendid 
girl, with a good deal of the spirit of the Grover youths 
at that age. In person she developed slowly, — one of 
those women rare in promise, who, however much they 
change, never fade. At this age, having received the 
best that the infant State could do for her, she was sent 
East to complete her education, as what one gathers at 
school is called. Her opportunities were not neglected. 
On her return home, she quite realized the expectations 
of her parents, and, wherever she appeared, was as near 
a sensation as that staid time permitted a maiden to be. 

A new jaunty bark sailed out of Cleveland as the 
“Edith,” and her full name was borne on the wheel- 
house of a famous lake steamer a twelvemonth later. 
At the beginning of this tale she was twenty- three ; tall, 
and realizing that rare union of supple lightness with 
roundness of contour, which produces that completeness 
so rarely attained even in the beautiful of the sex. 
Though educated in New England, her manners had the 
frankness, freedom, and the warmth of the West. She 
could hardly fail to be aware of her personal advantages, 
yet with her they seemed to count for nothing. She was 
a favorite with women, while few men beheld her with in- 
difference. Her nature was large and rich ; and, while she 


A PLEASANT ACCOUNT OF THE GROVERS. 249 


would readily acknowledge the pleasure she found in the 
society of men, she had a very general liking for man in 
the abstract. This kindliness never deluded her fancy 
with the idea, that, of all the men who approached her, 
any particular individual was the man. In a way, while 
no one could complain of scorn or coldness, for each, as a 
representative of his sex, she really felt a sort of liking, 
while the man himself was regarded with indulgent con- 
tempt. Tolerant of him to a certain extent, her estimate 
of herself, and of what a man must be, was too high. 
She was too proud to coquette, or indulge in flirtation. 
Few women of her day and surroundings had so many 
ardent admirers, from the cultivated of the young cities, 
to the farm-laborers and wood- choppers. None regarded 
her with indifference ; while, truth to say, she held them 
all much alike, and found it not at all unpleasant to be 
surrounded and admired by them. They all had quali- 
ties in common, and there was much in them she liked. 
AVhether she dreamed of the futime, or ever wondered 
what might happen, or was in the least anxious, I know 
-not. She was too healthy in mind and spirit for weak 
fancies, too deep to be lightly won by ordinary wooing, 
as she was too entirely a woman to be controlled or much 
swayed by the accidents of wealth or position. 

Within the last year, a young Severton of Cleveland, 
a gentleman of wealth and culture, of some literary pre- 
tensions, an amateur musician, of pleasing person and 
address, had in some sort elected himself an indefinite 
suitor, had procured himself to be tallied about in that 
relation to her, and only waited for encouragement to 
make a decided advance. With much of the style and 
manner supposed to qualify a man for access to the favor 
of women of refinement, beyond the advantage of being 
named with her his advance was not rapid, though he 


250 ' 


EDITH GROVEE. 


paid her a good deal of that court, which, should a tide 
bear it onward, leads to fame and fortune ; and the 
graciousness with which Miss Grover received him was 
only short of that favor for which he so anxiously looked, 
and which she would hardly extend to any one, whatever 
she might think of him. 

On the day of her meeting Dr. Field, as stated, in the 
mood in which she then was, his abrupt entrance into the 
coach upon her seclusion, with the odor which surrounded 
his name, seemed to her a pure aggression, and she at 
once placed him in the small minority of men never to be 
tolerated ; and then, just as she had banned, ruled him 
out, he turned lilie Remus, contemptuously leaped the 
wall, and rendered her an act of magnanimous courtesy, 
and in a way that mortal woman could take no exception 
to. She had never experience'd or witnessed any thing 
like it, and she doubted whether she had ever before met 
a man equal to it. He was a man. He said he was, in 
an indirect way, and acted like one, — one to be dreamed 
of by a maiden who indulged in that dangerous luxury. 
She was quite uncomfortable under the impressions pro- 
duced by this incident, and they marred not a little the 
pleasure of reaching home. 

Edith had a brother, a boy of thirteen, the one misfor- 
tune in the Grover house, — so peculiar, and so hopeless 
of relief, so ever present, that father, mother, and sister 
would have bartered wealth and position, if, sparing the 
life of the boy, it might pass from them. With the birth 
of this son the ardent wish of the father, the devout 
prayer of the mother, and the dearest wish of the sister, 
were answered. A soft, pulpy image of his father, strong 
and well-formed, he entered the outer world. He was 
named Walter, and would perpetuate the name, improve 
the fortune, and distinguish the line of Grover. At the 


A PLEASANT ACCOUNT OF THE GROVERS. 251 

age of three, a finer specimen of the young male of the 
human species could hardly be found, when, from sonje 
cause which the superstitious ascribe to the hand of Provi- 
dence, he was smitten with an epilepsy which baffled the 
best medical skill on the continent, and ranked in the 
catalogue of the incurable. As the boy grew in years, 
the paroxysms were less frequent, though undiminished 
in severity. He grew in stature as the young brute 
grows ; and now at thirteen, tall, and well-formed, he 
exhibited hardly the mind of a child of five. The eyes 
were dull, the face heavy. Whatever love could inspire, 
and care and watchfulness perform, what money could 
purchase, and prayer wring from Heaven, were exhausted, 
with the certainty, that, if life was prolonged, the last male 
of his line would reach manhood only to mature to idiocy. 

The child was not abandoned to hirelings, nor did love 
gi’ow weary of care of him. His condition vras an abid- 
ing sorrow and shadow, to be borne and lived under, but. 
in no way a shame to be covered. The fortunate seldom 
escape envy ; and many of the Grovers’ acquaintances 
saw in this affliction a judgment of God for unknown 
crimes of covetousness and greed, while the pious looked 
upon it in the light of a warning visitation, to admonish 
against putting trust in riches, or to humble the pride of 
worldly prosperity ; as if infinite love and invention 
would darken, perhaps blot out, a sinless soul for such 
incidental benefit as such a manifestation of divine good- 
ness might produce to the soul of another, which at the 
best could but vaguely and darkly guess its purpose. 
Its shadow added gravity to the manner of the father, 
and an intensity and fervor to the devotion of the mother. 
Edith had in a way grown up imdcr it ; and, as she ap- 
proached maturity, her spirits, naturally so vivacious, 
were sobered by it. 


252 


EDITH GEOYER. 


Walter early developed a fondness for horses, but could 
never be indulged in the use of his favorites, except in 
carnages. As he grew older, he displayed a great liking 
for guns and the woods, which, in a guarded way, he was 
indulged in. Edith naturally took to all out-door exer- 
cises, was a fearless rider, had Walter’s passion for the 
woods, and, to make herself a companion as well as 
guardian for him, she became familiar with the rifle and 
fowling-piece, and, with a light fusee, was often his com- 
rade in the near forests. 


" WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GKOVEKS. 253 


CHAPTER III. 

THIS CHAPTER SETS FORTH WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GRO- 
VERS, WITH SEVERAL MATTERS OF INTEREST TO THIS 

HISTORY. 

A DAY or two after Edith’s return home, her father 
came in from Cleveland, languid, spiritless, and ill, and 
with something peculiar in the expression of his counte- 
nance. He soon retired, and on being awakened spoke 
incoherently ; arose feeling badly the next morning, and 
immediately returned to his bed again, complaining of an 
awful headache ; was soon after discovered by his wife 
to be in a heavy, stupor-like sleep, from which he was 
awakened with difficulty. When finally aroused, he spoke 
wildly, declaring that he had not been asleep. His face 
was flushed, he had chills, then was hot and feverish, though 
perspiring. He had never been ill. His wife was terri- 
fied, even Edith was alarmed. A messenger was hurried 
off for Dr. Warren, who came in the evening, and was 
badly puzzled, as he might well be, — so much so, that 
he forgot his usual expression of profound wisdom, and 
manner of confident assurance, familiar to those who 
knew him. What he did was to open a vein. What or- 
dinary M.D. of that time ever failed to do this ‘in every 
form of fever? The next step was a potent dose of cal- 
omel. To have omitted or delayed it would then have 
been malpractice. He found his patient so much worse 
in the morning, that a messenger was despatched for Dr. 
Palmer. They made a new diagnosis of the case, and 


254 


EDITH GROVER. 


were sadly at fault. The response to the treatment was 
an aggravation of The worst symptoms. Confusion and 
dismay ruled their protracted consultation. They dared 
not pursue the drastic practice so promptly resorted to, 
and more wisely did nothing for the time. 

At this juncture, the firm, cool Edith directed Edwards 
to take the fastest horse, and go at once for Dr. Winslow 
at Cleveland, twenty miles away. He was then at the 
head of his profession. Not widely or deeply read, he was 
a quick, keen observer, never disregarded a hint or over- 
looked a suggestion, and had the rare capacity of receiv- 
ing and entertaining a new idea. Then over fifty, he was 
master of the diseases peculiar to his field of practice ; 
was liberal, catholic, cool, and wary. A few years before, 
under an act of the Ohio Legislature, he aided in the 
organization of a medical school at Cleveland, and become 
its president, and, his attention called to the newer text- 
books, he w^as not a little astonished at the distance 
between his own reading and the present state of the 
learning of his profession. He was a personal friend of 
the Grovers, and Edith knew that he would fly to their 
relief. He reached the field of battle and disaster, where 
a strong man, with the unaided forces of nature, was sin- 
gle-handed combating typhus-fever, aided by two ortho- 
dox doctors of the old regime. These, inThe mean time, 
had permitted the contest to go on without further inter- 
ference on their part ; and Dr. Winslow found them, with 
their mouths full of medical technics, awaiting his arrival. 
The case was as new to him as to them ; but he saw at 
once the fatal tendency of the practice. The sjunptoms 
to his eye were unmistakable in the direction they seemed 
to point ; but his reading and observation did not bring 
the case clearly within his intelligent grasp. The consul- 
tation of the three was brief. Within five minute^ he 


WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GEOVERS. ' 255 

called Edwards, and asked if Dr. Field was not some- 
where in the neighborhood ; and, on being answered in the 
affirmative — 

“Bring him here at once,” he said. “Don’t'send: 
go and bring him. Tell him Dr. Winslow requests his 
attendance immediately.” 

The sudden demise of the patient could have produced 
but little more surprise and dismay through the Grover 
mansion than this order when it became known. 

“ By whose order was this done, I beg to know? ” de- 
manded Dr. Warren. 

“ By mine,” answered Dr. Winslow very quietly. 

“That is most extraordinary, and, permit me to add, 
most unprofessional, calling in this without consult- 

ing the attending physician.” 

“ Did you consult Mrs. Grover?” asked Dr. Palmer. 
‘ ‘ I doubt whether she would consent to Dr. Field being 
called in.” 

“And I cannot meet him, anyway,” added Dr. War- 
ren, scowling savagely. 

“ You will not be required to. Gentlemen, this is not 
a time for etiquette. Here is a case so desperate and 
doubtful, that two experienced doctors have been maun- 
dering over it twenty-four hours, doing their wisest and 
best, which was nothing whatever. The third is called in, 
and brings little help. The case is new to us. We want 
light, and here is a young man fresh from the New- York 
and Philadelphia hospitals. He has visited my patients 
with me in Cleveland. I don’t care what is said of him 
in this region. I ordered him to be called, and I take the 
responsibility.” 

The manner in which this was said ended the remon- 
strance. 

When Edith was told that Dr. Winslow had ordered 


256 


EDITH GEOVER. 


Dr. Field to be sent for, she received it with a look of 
fright mingled with surprise, and without a word went to 
Mrs. Grover. 

“Mother, I understand that Mr. Edwards has just 
gone to call in Dr. Field. It was done by the order of 
Dr. Winslow.’' While this was said with seeming calm- 
ness, there was a tone in her voice, showing that it was 
forced. 

“ My God ! ” exclaimed the mother, clasping her hands. 
“Is the case so hopeless? Can no other help be found? 
God’s will be done.” 

“ It does not prove that our case is hopeless, mother. 
It shows that Dr. Winslow has great confidence^ in this 
Dr. Field. It may be, mother dear, that he is our ap- 
pointed help. God does not always leave the choice 
to us.” 

“Oh, oh, oh! The massy’s sakes alive!” exclaimed 
Ingles, in the kitchen, to the assembled and amazed help. 
“Oh, dear! that we could ever be brought to this ’ere! 
I’d up and die to oncet, an’ done with it — I would ! afore 
he should doctor me, with his ole cow medicine, — the 
fitin’, drinkin’, good-for-nothin’, nasty man, a-luggin’ his 
babies and huzzies ’round ! What can Mis’ Grover be a 
thinkin’ on? — or Edith, other? ” 

“ It is Dr. Winslow’s doin’s,” said one of the girls. 

“In course ’tis ! ” rejoined Ingles. “He’s one on 
’em hisself. I’ll warrant. He goes ’round proscribin’ for 
cows, and sich folks. These city doctors is all alike. 
Poor Dr. Warren ! I’d go right straight off, as straight 
as ever I could go, ef I was he.” 

Half an hour later the M.D.’s were at the supper-table, 
presided over by the collected Edith, while Mrs. Grover 
and an attendant kept watch over the wandering mind and 
prostrate form of the unconscious patient. Edith, as so 


WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GROVERS. 257 

similarly situated have been, was shocked at the 
appetite of the doctors, the vigor with which tliey assailed 
the viands before them, and their apparent indifference to 
the condition of their patient, whose case she felt they 
had found beyond their skill. There they sat talking, and 
eating with relish, as if to-morrow and the succeeding 
days must come and go in deepening gold and splendor 
of the autnmn, and disease and death were banished the 
world. 

The conversation finally attracted her attention. Under 
the hand of Dr. Winslow it came back to the only subject 
of interest to her. Perhaps he may have given it th^t 
turn for her benefit ; and he may also have remembered his 
hasty words to the two doctors, and was willing to put the 
matter in a form less offensive. To Edith they seemed to 
resume a conversation, or continue one, not heard by her. 

“My clear doctor,” said AVinslow to Vv^aiTcn, “the 
young man was probably rude to you, considering your 
age and high standing ; but then we must remember that 
he was defending a patient’s limb against amputation. 
The case under ordinary lights, undoubtedly warranted, 
required, the operation. He thought otherwise. He re- 
sisted you ; and the result, mind you, proved that for once 
you were wrong. He saved the limb. His new method 
of extension and treatment saved the limb. They and he 
just met the case. He brouglit the lad to us at Cleve- 
land two weeks ago, and our class had the benefit of his 
exposition of the case. It was really beautiful. The 
limb is but a trifle/ shorter than the other. 

“And what did he say of Dr. AVarren and his consul- 
tation? ” asked Dr. Palmer dryly. 

“ Not a word to Dr. AVarren’s discredit, but quite the 
reverse.” And so went one of the grave charges against 
the young physician. - - 


258 


EDITH GROVER. 


Edith knew that this was the case of the Wilkins boy, 
in which Dr. Field had been accused of brutal misconduct. 

‘‘ The fact is,” said the generous Dr. Winslow, “ these 
young men come among us now with the advantage of 
all the knowledge and light of these last twenty ^^ears, and 
it is immense. During all this time we have been off here 
in the woods, in a sort of twilight ; and in many things 
the youngsters can teach us, and whether we remain on 
earth much longer depends on our capacity to take new 
ideas. Undoubtedly the forms of disease change. Uew 
types arise ; and certainly new and improved methods, and 
new medical agents, for old diseases have been discovered. 
Why, when this youth was last at Cleveland, I took him 
about with me one morning ; and I am not blind, nor very 
dull, as you know ; but I was astonished at the delicacy 
of his touch, and the subtlety of his senses and perception, 
to use such an expression. Why, it was only the other 
day that Baldwin, who is, as you know, our greatest stocli- 
raiser and dealer, told me that he was using a prescription, 
which, as he understood, was made by Dr. Field, for the 
bloody murrain, with great success. It was infallible, 
given in the early stages. We joked Field about it, and 
he laughingly said there was some foundation for Iris 
being called a cow-doctor.” 

The front door-bell rang ; and, with a hasty apology, 
Edith hastened, and answered it herself. She had resolved 
upon her course. Their only hope seemed to rest on this 
young man ; and she somehow felt that hers veas quite 
strong, and he should have no cause to rememb(*r her 
former manner toward him, and none to complain of it, in 
the new relation whi.h they must sustain to each othc'r. 
As she approached the open door, he stood on the . broad 
step in front of it. v>dt!i the last rays of the j^ellovc autumn 
sun fairly deluging him. As she advanced, he lifted his 
hat, and bowed with graceful hauteur. 


WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GPOVERS. 


259 


“Is this Di\ Field?” she asked with a frank natural- 
ness, and she really was in doubt whether it was he. 

“My name is Field,” he answered, quite disarmed; 
‘ ‘ and I am sometimes called doctor. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am Edith Grover, ’ ’ she responded, with a gracious 
inclination of her person, which he acknowledged with 
another bow. “Dr. Winslow wishes to see you, — has 
been speaking in the handsomest terms of you. Oh ! I — • 
we hope you can help us.” Her earnest words went to 
the young man’s heart and conscience. Could this be the 
cold, proud impersonation of womanly scorn so lately on 
exhibition before him? As he stood in a moment’s maze, 
“ Shall I conduct 3^011 to him? ” she asked. 

“ Certainty,” resuming something of the air with which 
he first bowed to her. 

Her reference to Dr. Winslow’s encomium certainty 
merited an acknowledgment to her personalty. Possibl}’ 
ho thought that she only expressed the relief which Dr. 
Winslow’s liind mention of him gave her. He evidently 
heard it with indifference. That gentleman met him in the 
corridor, had a word with him, and Edith conducted him 
to her father. All that could be learned from attendants 
Edwards had communicated to him : for the rest he was 
property remitted to his own skill. His examination was 
rapid, and to himself seemingly satisfactoiy. In passing 
from the room he met Edith, who introduced him to her 
mother, who stood there with her. His manner to Mrs. 
Grover was deferential and charming, and he paused a 
moment to answer their anxious inquiries. 

“ There is no immediate danger, and very large ground 
for hope,” he said with warmth and sincerity, addressing 
the elder lady. 

“ Oh, how gladly this sounds to us ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ I' may venture to suggest further,” he said, “that 


260 


EDITH GROVER. 


just the fewest persons possible should be about him,” 
looking toward quite a group of attendants in the sick- 
room. “ They only rob him of breath. Open all the win- 
dows. He needs the best possible air, and a plenty of it.” 
His words, low and gently spoken, were nevertheless with 
authority. 

Dr. Warren consented to remain, and young Field was 
shown to the room where the seniors awaited liis approach. 
In reply to a question from Dr. Winslow, the young man, 
in the fewest words, expressed his opinion with becoming 
modesty, for which he gave, in the clearest way, his rea- 
sons, showing that his examination had been thorough 
and satisfactory. No doubt whatever could exist but that 
the case was one' of qualified typhus. He remariced that 
it had been supposed that no case of typhus had yet arisen 
in Northern Ohio ; that in his limited practice he had. met 
but one similar case, to which he was called the day 
before, which he described with clearness. On the ques- 
tion of treatment wide differences of opinion were devel- 
oped. Dr. Winslow was with Dr. Field. At the end of 
the conference. Dr. Winslow asked the young man if he 
would take charge of the patient. xVfter a moment’s 
hesitation, he consented, if that was the wish of the pa- 
tient’s friends. Dr. YtHnslow said he was authorized to 
speak for them. That it was their wish, in which he 
entirely concurred. 

The manner of the young man was cordial and frank to 
the other two medical gentlemen ; and, as they were leav- 
ing, he invited them, as opportunity presented, to call, and 
mark the course of the case. 

He entered upon the duties of his new charge, and made 
many important changes in the treatment at once, which 
not only indicated his mastery of the situation, but in- 
spired confidence in the friends and attendants. Here 


TV^EAT HAPPENED TO THE GROVERS. 261 

was a man who acted as if he knew what he was about, 
who believed in doing something, who was in downright 
earnest. On his approach, the situation and surroundings 
of the house, the position of the trees about it, light, sun, 
air, were all noted. The room in which he found Mr. 
Grover was unfavorable, in his judgment ; and he selected 
another which met his wishes, had it prepared, and trans- 
ferred his charge to it. 

The new^s of Mr. Grover’s illness, its mystery and dan- 
ger, were quickly spread through all the region about his 
residence ; and for the last two days a large number of 
anxious and alarmed friends were in constant attendance 
at the homestead, most of whom were personal strangers 
to Dr. Field, and shared in the adverse opinion so strong 
and general against him. To these the course of the old 
doctors was simply amazing, and, in contrast wuth the 
prompt vigor of the quiet and unhesitating youth now in 
command, contributed largely to the almost instantaneous 
change in the popular estimate of him. A few adherents 
of the retiring doctors said that they all the time under- 
stood the case, and knew what they were about ; thaj^ 
they had to wait a certain time, and that somebod}^ was 
wanted who had the leisure to remain and take the imme- 
diate charge, and that Dr. Field was merely executing 
their orders ; all of which was very summarily rejected by 
the new admirers of the young chief. 

When his arrangements were completed, he quietly took 
possession of a room adjoining his hospital ward, and 
informed Mrs. Grover that he would remain in the exclu- 
sive charge of the patient for the night, would require 
little assistance ; that he wanted some one at hand intelli- 
gent and reliable, whom he could instruct in the duties of 
the place, and who could be left in charge in his absence, 
saying, — 


262 


EDITH GROVER. 




‘ ‘ It may be necessary to give you much of my presence, 
Mrs. Grover ; but I will try to make it as little unpleas- 
ant to you as possible.” 

“I am to fill the place of chief nurse, Dr. Field,” said 
Edith, stepping foiward with quiet decision. ' “I shall be 
faithful ; and, if you will be patient with me, I can soon 
learn my duties.” 

‘ ‘ It is your undoubted right. Miss Grover, ’ ’ answered 
the young mail ; “and I am sure none more intelligent, 
with firmness and coolness, can be found.” There was 
no shadow of intended compliment in his words.«. “ But,” 
and he hesitated, “ there are some reasons W’hy one at 
your ago should not be exposed to the possible danger 
of continuous and prolonged attendance upon a typhus- 
fever patient, which to one of middle age would be less, 
as is thought. This disease is medically supposed to be 
contagious, and those under thirty j^ears of age are tliought 
to be more likely to take it.” 

‘ ‘ Oh ! is that all ? ” said Edith eagerly. ‘ ‘ I am elected 
then, and enter upon my duties at once.” Did she think 
the young man remembered the ride in the stage-coach ? 
I don’t know. 

Directing that some of the gentlemen- who had proffered 
their services might be lodged within call, he quite decid- 
edly dismissed the ladies. Edith lingered a moment to 
say that she must ask to be permitted to look into the 
sick-room occasionally during the night, and reluctantly 
went out with her mother. 

One there was in the house, in the vicinity of the 
kitcheii, who remained implacable. 

“I will jest give this ’ere Dr. Fields a piece o’ my 
mind. No one is safe where ’e was. Whoever ’afore hcarn 
o’ movin’ a sick man, an’ him a livin’ ! ” And she wan- 
dered off toward the hospital quarters, but whether to 


WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GROVEBS. 


263 


discharge this important duty, survey the fortress, or get 
sight of the object of her dislike, whom she had never 
seen, may not be known. The house was quiet. She 
stole furtively along the dim corridor, and peeped into the 
patient’s room, ,as also into the room adjoining it. If she 
was looking for the doctor for v/hom in her mind she had 
sketched a properly repulsive image, she did not see him. 
Instead of him there, was only a really very good and quite 
youthful-looking man, with a pale, attractive face, very 
line, large eyes, to whom she took at once, and was very 
willing to confide in. She looked at him a long time, and 
so much interested, that she finally approached him. 

“Laws sakes ! whoever sawn such doin’s afore! Do 
you prove of it? ” she said to him. 

“Well, not all of it, I must say,” said the amused 
youth. 

“This ’ere movin’ a sick man from one room to an- 
other, and carryin’ on ’im foot foremost 1 I s’ pose it was 
this ’ere Dr. Field’s doin’s.” 

“ I presume it was,” he replied. 

“ ITal, if he hadn’t gone, I’d jest give ’im a piece o’ my 
mind, that I would 1 ” 

“You may give it to me for him,” said the young man. 
“I will see that he has it. It will do him good. He 
needs mind very much, I know,” very gravely. 

“ Yis, he needs it, if ever a man did, — to go ’round 
docterin’ cows, an’ runnin’* off gals an’ babies. W’y, a 
body ain’t safe where ’e is.” 

“My good woman,” said the 3 'oung man, laughing in 
spite of himself, “I don’t really believe you are in great 
personal danger ; but, if he approaches you, do you come 
straight to me. I shall always be here when he is.” 

“ Oh, I’m so glad I I s’pose this is Mr. Severton. You 
come from Cleveland with Dr, YvTnslow, didn’t you?” 


264 


EDITH GROVER. 


advancing quite near him, and looking him confidentially 
in the face. 

“Well, not quite all that,” was the puzzled and puz- 
zling answer. “Who is this Mr. Severton, an^^way?” 

“ Oh-h-h ! I thought yon’s he. Oh! he’s Edith Cleve- 
land’s beau, you see. I s’pose suthin’ll happen some- 
time.” 

“ Oh, I see 1 I presume something will happen. Things 
do, sometimes.” 

“ Will Dr. Fields be ’ere in the mornin’ ? ” 

“ I presume he will.” 

“ Wal, good-evenin’.” 

“Good-by. Call again,” good-humoredly. 

“ Sartin,” and lingeringly she turned away. 

At the door she met the flushed face of Edith, who had 
been near enough to overhear the conversation, and was 
too embarrassed to interrupt it, and whom the person of 
Ingles protected from Field’s eyes. 

“ O Ingles ! That is Dr. Field ! ” in a low, distressed 
voice'. 

“Dr. Fields! Lord a massy on me!” cried the 
abashed spinster, as she fled in dismay down the corridor. 

The mortified Edith took refuge with her mother, from 
whom she concealed her chagrin, and resolved to admon- 
ish Ingles of the danger of the region of the sick-room, 
and a moment later she reproached herself for the thought 
that even typhus-fever would refuse Ingles. At about 
twelve o’clock she again stole to her father’s room, and 
just entered it. She thought his breathing much easier, 
and she heard none of the delirious murmuring that had 
so terrified and distressed her. Dr. Field sat near him, 
with his face in profile, the fine outline of which she ob- 
ser^^ed, intently contemplating the face of the sick man. 
Apparently he was counting the pulsations at the wrist ; 


WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GEOYERS. 265 


and as he desisted his eyes turned upon her, and she felt 
that he did not see her, was unconscious of her presence, 
and she stole away with the weird sensation of one who 
had met the eyes of a sleep-walker. 

At three she again visited her father. Dr. Field was 
then slowly walking up and down his own room. As he 
passed the door communicating with that of his patient, 
he saw her, and came to her side where she stood by the 
bed. The murmur of the unconscious lips had ceased, 
and the breathing was quite natural. The doctor, in her 
presence, moistened the sick man’s mouth, and explained 
to her the use of the appliances employed about his per- 
son, conducted her to the door, and gravely told her she 
must retire, and sleep if possible. It was curious, the 
influence of his cool, deep, not unmusical voice upon her. 
There was in it the force of the same assertion as when 
he took possession of her trunk. It seemed to disengage 
her clinging anxiety from its object, and soothe the ner- 
vous restlessness of her spirit. When she gained her 
room, as several times before during the day and night, 
she knelt, and prayed with fervor, loosened her clothes, 
and composed herself by her mother, and slept as the 
overtaxed innocent may. 

The lamps burnt the long lone night through. The 
presence of the young physician-, with the confidence and 
feeling of relief which it inspired, brought relaxation and 
a sense of safety to the whole household. 


266 


BDITH GEOVER. 


CHAPTER IV. 

TELLS HOW YOUNG FIELD CAME TO SAY THAT HE WAS ONCE 
AMBITIOUS TO BE A CIRCUS-RIDER, AND OTHER MATTERS 
OF INTEREST. 

As Edith awoke the next morning from her dreamless 
slumbers, the peril of her father fell back upon her con- 
sciousness like a ponderous weight ; and she wondered that 
the sky should be so bright, the earth so green, the au- 
tumn foliage so gorgeous. A flock of gay jay-birds, in 
their brilliant plumage, were fluttering about among the 
trees on the lawn ; and a pair of red squirrels, in their 
noisy frolic, were chasing each other up and down the tree- 
trunks in the wantonness of play. 

It was late ; and she found Dr. Winslow, who had 
breakfasted, preparing to leave for Cleveland. Her 
mother was with her father ; and, as the two bent over 
him, in the mitigation of the symptoms they could now 
very clearly see the ravage already made by the most 
fearful disease that smites the children of men. Their 
hearts sank within them. The two physicians approached, 
the elder to take leave ; and the ladies, by the expression 
of their faces, saw that they were not in the least despond- 
ent. Edith felt the weight lifted from her heart, and 
greeted them cheerfully, almost joyously. “May we in- 
deed hope, doctor?” She gave her hand to the elder; 
but her look and words were to the younger, as if she 
wished his assurance. 

• “Certainly you may,” was the answer of Dr. Wins- 


OTHEB MATTEES OF INTEEEST. 


267 


low, taking a hand of each of the ladies. “ We have this 
morning carefully gone over the case. We have the 
wished-for result of our treatment. You must be patient 
and hopeful. Many days must elapse before decided 
signs of recovery. I leave you in the best possible hands, 
and will come again at your call, which I do not expect 
will be necessary.” And then he went away. 

Field perfected his arrangements for the care of his 
patient, and met Mrs. Grover and Edith at the breakfast- 
table. They availed themselves of the occasion to learn 
more definitely his opinions as to the condition and pros- 
pects of his charge. A close observer of the young man’s 
face might have several times detected a half-smile that 
rather hovered about his mouth and eyes than lit upon 
them, as if touched by the memory of something ludicrous 
or amusing. Upon stepping into the corridor that morn- 
ing, after day had asserted itself there, he encountered 
Ingles, who approached him with much trepidation, and 
making a very humble, old-fashioned school-girl courtesy, 
addressed him. 

“ Good-mornin’, Dr. Fields. I come to beg yer pard- 
ing. I meant no offence last night. Dr. Fields : I sartin 
didn’t, shure as I live.” 

“Good-morning, Miss Ingles. I know you did not; 
and I did not take the least in the world, I assure you.” 

“ Oh, I’m so glad ! I thought I’d best come and settle 
the hash to once, an’ I’m raly glad to find ye ain’t mad 
nor nuthin’. How is Mr. Grover this mornin’, doctor? ” 

“ He is doing very well, I assure you.” 

The old spinster lingered, notwithstanding his crimes 
against her sex, which do not repel all women from the 
sinner. Something about the person, in the manner, of 
the young man, attracted her, and she wanted a final 
understanding with him. 


268 


EDITH GROYER. 


“The facts is, I s’pose, doctor,’’ she ventured to say, 
‘ ‘ that doctors is more like other men than anybody else 
is ; on account of their perfession, you know, in bein’ 
’round more.” 

‘ ‘ And have the right to carry babies around, and that 
sort of thing, eh? ” laughing very pleasantly. 

“Yes, jes so. I didn’t mean ter blame ye fer it. It 
was all her fault, ye know. A man ain’t expected, ye 
know ” — As she hesitated, he came to her aid. 

“ Of course he ain’t. You are very considerate of the 
faults of men and doctors, and I am much obliged to 
you,” bowing gravely. “And then, you know,” he 
went on, “ that, if boys stone toads, the cows give bloody 
milk.” 

“ Yis, I’ve beam o’ that,” she replied, never having 
seen an instance. 

“ In which case,” he logically concluded, “ it would be 
better practice to whip the boys than to go round doctor- 
ing the cows ” — 

“ That’s jist it, Dr. Fields, though I never said ye doc- 
tored cows.” 

“ — for giving bad milk,” he added a little archly. 

“ No ; an’ I’m glad you ain’t mad at me.” 

“ Not in the least, and I am glad we agree so well.” 

“Massay, so’m I! Good-mornin’, Dr. Fields;” and 
she went away immensely pleased with the young man, 
and quite appreciating the charity of her sex for the weak- 
nesses of men in the person of a handsome young doctor. 
In her heart she knew it was all the fault of the good- 
for-nothing thing, and she was glad she had told him so. 

The young man entered the neat and airy breakfast- 
room, even in that period of distress decorated tastefully 
with late summer flowers, with a cheerful face, over which 
would steal little gleams of the memory of hi^ early inter- 


OTHER MATTERS OF INTEREST. 


269 


view with Ingles. Mrs. Grover beckoned him to the side- 
board, and pointing to a little group of cut glass : — 

“Dr. Field, here are some choice 'liquors and wines, 
and I have no doubt you will find them helpful in your 
great fatigue and exposure.” 

“-Mrs. Grover, I am greatly obliged. I never take a 
drop of liquor, and I don’t know the taste of wine. I 
look upon them all as medicines of no great value.” 

In her surprise at his declaration, Edith almost stared 
him in the face for a moment, and saw in his clear, deep 
eyes the absolute truth of his words ; and later, as he sat 
near her, addressing himself to her mother, who sat op- 
posite him, with his face in profile to Edith, she noticed 
the healthful transparency and fine fibre of the cuticle of 
his rather pale face, and also the earnest sincerity of his 
look and voice. The breakfast was little more than nomi- 
nal to them all. The young man neatly divided a fowl, 
and gave each the indicated part with the grace of one 
accustomed to the society of ladies and the duties of his 
place, apparent even to his pre-occupied hostesses. 

“Doctor,” said Mrs. Grover, “I noticed that you ex- 
pressed no opinion this morning when Dr. Winslow was 
present. You will not alarm us : we want very much to 
know what you think of our chances.” 

“ A little more in detail,” added Editl 

“It is certainly your due when you ask it,” he an- 
swered ; ‘ ‘ and perhaps ’ ’ — hesitating — “I may be ex- 
cused for saying that last year, for several months, I was 
in attendance and had the charge of a ward in an eastern 
hospital devoted to patients suffering from typhus-fever, 
under the supervision of an eminent physician who had 
made it a study. 

Then, in a few sentences of the simplest words, he 
brought the case within their easy apprehension, and in- 


270 


EDITH GROVER. 


vdicated the course of treatment, and the reason for it, 
saying, — 

“We feel that we have a clear grasp of the case in all 
its bearings. We cannot dislodge and expel the malady. 
We must mainly rely on the strength, ability, and endur- 
ance of the patient to hold out, and fight the battle. We 
have secured such a response to our treatment of last 
night, that I am sure we have made ourselves the useful 
allies of Nature in this contest. I have no doubt we can 
help her materially. We are to sustain and re-enforce her 
energies. We will be vigilant, watchful, and hopeful, 
and Heaven will permit us to succeed.” He spoke with 
confidence, and the enthusiasm of quite a young man, 
and a devotee of his art. There was the glow of high 
courage and resolve, which looked like inspiration, on his 
face, and the last words had the tone of submissive rev- 
erence. The two women were exalted by his words and 
manner; and, save by fervid “We trust it will,” neither 
spoke. As they arose from the table he said, “ I may have 
needlessly alarmed you about the danger of attendance on 
our charge. I do not regard it as great. I only enjoin 
prudence. I have found frequent baths, change of dress, 
plenty of air, and care of one’s self, quite ample protec- 
tion ; and I have fully advised those who will, with you, 
be much exposed; and,” turning smilingly to Edith, “I 
shall claim the privilege of observing Miss Grover, as well 
as her mother, and know I shall not be misapprehended.” 

“Thank you, thank you, doctor,” said the elder lady: 
“ we shall trust you.” A profound bow, and look of sat- 
isfaction, was the response to her words. 

He had many patients to visit that day, scattered over 
a wide extent of country. His own horse was four miles 
away. Edwards thought he could supply him for the day ; 
and, when asked what kind of a horse would suit his pui- 


OTHER MATTERS OF INTEREST. 


271 


pose, replied that he could ride any thing, but wanted one 
that could perform a full day of hard travel in half of that 
time. “ Give me something with power and bottom.” 

“ I’ll give him Wicked Dick,” said Bill, the stable and 
horseman of the establishment. “ He’ll carry him to the 
devil in less than half a day.” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Edwards. “Let 
him have Prmce.” 

“ He wants shooin’.” 

“Well, Miss Edith won’t object to his riding Jilt one 
day.” 

“ She’s out in the paster. Oh ! let ’im try Dick. He’s 
so shure he can ride any thin’. Dick won’t hurt ’im.” 

There really seemed no choice ; and Edwards turned 
away, rather than assented. Five minutes later, a tall, 
powerful, rough-made, light gray was brought out ram- 
pant. The fact was, he never had been thoroughly mas- 
tered, and not backed for months. Those who knew him 
were too prudent, and he had a wide as well as an unenvi- 
able reputation. 

The young doctor stood ready to mount ; and his eye 
flashed at the splendid approach of Wicked Dick, as he 
took him in with the skill of a connoisseur. 

“ It is the best and only thing we can do,” said Ed- 
wards ajwlogetically. “ He was never well broken, and 
named Wicked Dick for his vices. I don’t know as I 
ought to permit you to try him.” 

“ I rather like his looks, and don’t mind a bad name,” 
was the answer of the young man, approaching the horse, 
which shied a little as he went toward him. 

“You see, he’s been a-standiu’ in the stable, doin’ 
nothin’, for mor’n a week, an’ feels ’is oats,” said Bill 
encouragingly. “Try ’im, doctor,” continued the young 
man, who was the last one dismounted by the vicious 
brute. 


272 


EDITH GROVER. 


“ That is just what I shall do,” replied Field quietly.- '• 

“ I fear he’ll be the death of you,” said Edwards, very “ . 
much inclined to interfere at the last moment. 

“Death on a pale boss,” cried Bill, unconscious of 
what he had said. 

“An M.D. on a light gray: my patients will appre- 
ciate that,” said the doctor, smiling, and preparing to 
mount. 

Dick permitted him to approach, and even accepted a 
caress or two, seemed rather to fancy him, but still 
showed the white in his eyes, as if to say, “Don’t seat 
yourself and your affections on me.” The doctor liked 
the outfit, tried the girths, let down the stirrups, and ad- 
justed the reins, then stepped lightly and quickly to his 
seat in the saddle, with the grace of a practised horseman 
as he was. The appearance of the well-known horse 
attracted the whole household — laborers, visitors, girls, 
and all — -to witness the equestrian experiment in which 
interest and curiosity were mingled with fear. Mrs. Gro- 
ver, from her window, saw the horse ledvout ;?sand, when 
Field approached him, she divined the meaning of his un- 
wonted appearance. “ O Edith ! For Heaven’s sake, go 
and prevent the doctor from mounting that awful horse ! 

He will be killed ! ” she cried in distress. 

“ No, he won’t, mother,” said Edith, kindling at the 
prospect of the inevitable contest. “He knows what he 
can do,” yet, in spite of herself, drawn to the veranda for 
a better view. She gained it in time to mark the ease 
and grace of the mount, and, like the rest, was struck 
by his pose on the- tall, lithe horse. One moment, and 
Dick, in his exuberance of pent spirit, made a succession 
of splendid vaults, which he finished by throwing his hind- 
feet into the air. The young man remained firm in his 
seat. An instant’s ominous quiet. The rider bent forward 


OTHER MATTERS OF INTEREST. 


273 


to pat Dick with his hand, when the brute suddenly reared 
to his highest capacity, and threw himself back. His rider 
was too quick for him. Withdrawing from the stirrups, 
he lighted on his feet, seized the furious horse by the head' 
as he struck the ground, bore and held it firmly down. 
The animal turned on his side, now utterly helpless, — 
powerless alike to rise, or for mischief. After one or two 
unavailing struggles, he became quiescent. Bill, Edwards, 
and half a dozen men, now ran up as if to aid the victor. 

“Keep the ground clear, boys,” he cried good-natured- 
ly to them. “He is about done for.” After a moment 
he patted him with his hand, and soothed him with his 
voice. Two or three minutes elapsed perhaps, when the 
doctor gathered up the reins, released Dick’s head, and 
as he arose his rider was again firmly in the saddle, and 
gave him the word to go, at which, with long springing 
leaps, he went up the lane toward his stable, was wheeled 
in a graceful demicircle, and came spiritedly back. His 
rider halted him for a moment, received his hat, which had 
been pitched from his head, and turned his horse toward 
the highway, and at a smart gallop rode the now subdued 
animal away. As he passed the front of the house he went 
within two yards of Edith, who stood supporting her 
mother. What a splendid spectacle was Edith, with her 
noble form drawn up, her clear, olive face a little 
blanched, with admiration mingling with apprehension 
and high spirit, and her splendid dark eyes a little dis- 
tended and flashing ! He lifted his hat with a proud incli- 
nation of person to them as he dashed by ; and from the 
loud applause, almost cheers, which followed him, he rode 
away. 

For a moment, mother and daughter quite forgot the 
husband and father, to whom they instantly returned. 

Very gallantly the youth rode away, leaving himself to 


274 


EDITH GEOVER. 


be admired and wondered over ; but he carried away an 
unpleasant impression. Though not suspicious, he was 
half possessed with the idea, that, notwithstanding the 
words of Edwards, a very dangerous practical joke had 
perhaps been intended. There certainly were a good many 
spectators, as if the thing had been generally understood. 
They all seemed to know the character of the horse, and 
could have known nothing of his ability to deal with him. 
An ordinary rider might have been killed. This, however, 
did not annoy him so much. The unpleasant thing re- 
ferred to Edith. In the exhilaration, almost exultation, of 
his mastery of the savage horse, he lifted his hat and 
saluted her, with the glow of his trimnph in his face and 
manner. He did not even see her mother. To him it 
seemed that an instantaneous change came over her. Her 
face at once had the cold, distant scorn of the stage-coach, 
and as he went off the impulse to turn and look back at 
her was very strong. She certainly did not acknowledge 
his bow, save by the freezing look he received. He was 
humiliated. He had, as a gentleman might, presumed 
upon her notice, and was snubbed. After all, he was only 
a man, and quite a young one ; and he went off over the 
hills under the autumn sky, in the sunshine, in a bitter 
mood. Everywhere he went he found that his horse was 
known, and by name. Everybody was amazed that he 
rode — could ride him, and he heard several stories of his 
exploits. He did not spare him in the least, though he 
cultivated him. Having a hard day’s ride, he wisely hu- 
mored him to the road, and nobly did Dick respond to the 
calls made upon him. His gaits were all fast, and his 
walk quite a marvel. Before Dr. Field left in the morn- 
ing, he assured Mrs. Grover that he would return at two 
for dinner. He was met with a new call at the Corners ; 
and a little after four, in a very leisurely way, he rode up 


OTHER MATTERS OF INTEREST. 


275 


the elm and maple avenue to the Grover mansion, and 
delivered Dick, no longer wicked, into the hands of the 
wondering, worshipping Bill at the stable. 

I am afraid he did not return in a frame of mind to 
greatly appreciate the anxiety felt on his account, inten- 
sified as it had been by his protracted absence, nor was he 
in the least conscious of the relief which his return brought 
to the whole household. Spite of his honest effort to wear 
his usually cheerful countenance, quick eyes detected that 
it was somewhat assumed. He went at once to his pa- 
tient, by whom he sat some minutes engaged in a careful 
observation of him, and a scrutiny of every symptom and 
indication. The bedside was sacred to the tried youth. 
In its presence, and the exercise of the, to him, holy office 
of ministration, the perturbation of his feelings subsided. 
He felt that an outside, an unworthy train of thought and 
feeling had obtruded upon and darkened his spirit, and 
possibly obscm-ed his perceptions, and a moisture dimmed 
his eyes for a moment as he gratefully felt them now die 
out of him. When he arose from his examination of his 
patient, and this introspection, the same watchful eyes 
were gladdened with the almost sweet serenity of his face, 
and detected a slight smile about his mobile mouth not 
noticed before. They saw also the vanishing traces of 
conflict. He raised his own eyes, and frankly met those 
of Edith, and turned to those of her mother. 

“He has gone on very well, very well, indeed,” he 
said, with a hearty and cordial assurance, “and as I 
hoped he would.” 

He passed into the room set apart for nurses and attend- 
ants, when Mrs. Grover cried out, — 

“ O doctor ! how awfully we were frightened this morn- 
ing ! and I have not fully recovered yet.” 

“I am very sorry: I was quite in faultt Edwards 


276 


EDITH GKOVER. 


warned me. It was very boyish in me, I am sure. It 
was a sort of a challenge, which on the moment I could 
not resist,’’ deprecatingly. 

“It might have resulted in great misfortune to us,” 
said Edith coldly. 

“The doctor,” emphasizing the word, “must be very 
much obliged to you. Miss Grover,” said the young man 
sarcastically. 

“Indeed! I did not think of the doctor at the time. 
I forgot every thing but the courage and skill that mas- 
tered that brute. I am glad it happened, and that I saw 
it! ” cried the brave Edith, with generous warmth. Had 
the young man been less schooled, this frank speech had 
been dangerous. Doubtless what had before passed be- 
tween these two had much to do in rendering him imper- 
vious. He acknowledged the compliment with a slight 
bow, and merely said, — 

“I was once ambitious to be a circus-rider.” 

“Had you further trouble with him?” meaning the 
horse. 

“Not the least. In good hands he would be one of the 
most valuable horses I have ever seen. I should never 
have trouble with him again.” 

“ Will you accept him from us? ” asked Mrs. Grover. 

“ Not as a present. I thank you, Mrs. Grover. I 
cannot afford two horses. Indeed, I am indebted for the 
one I now call mine,” smiling, as he exposed his poverty, 
with the frankest indifference. 

It was now ascertained that he had gone without dinner ; 
and he was carried off to the dining-room at once, and 
then, after the necessary directions, and saying that he 
was certainly to be called at twelve, and before if his 
presence was wished, he retired to a room set apart for 
his use. 


OTHER MATTERS OF INTEREST. 


277 


At a little past twelve, Edith, sitting by her father near 
an open window, fell into a thin slumber, and dreamed 
that she was cold, and that some one, whom she did not 
see, came and wrapped her warmly ; and she awoke just 
as Dr. Field stepped back from laying a warm wrap over 
her lightly- covered shoulders. 

“Pardon me. Miss Grover. You seemed exposed. I 
hardly dared awaken you. I really must insist you shall 
not expose yourself to a draught of this night air.” 

The thoughtful act, and manner of doing it, were in 
pleasant contrast with his coldness of the afternoon, and 
she thanked him warmly. 

“ And now. Miss Grover,” looking at his watch, “ it is 
past twelve: you are to retire, and lam to remain in 
charge.” And, stepping into the waiting-room, he per- 
emptorily dismissed for the night the two dozing attend- 
ants who occupied it. 

The next day he rode Dick, and the next, and for 
many succeeding days, and the two became attached. 
Under his unceasing watch and care, Mr. Grover’s case 
went on without seeming change, and his wife and daugh- 
ter became accustomed to it, and, wit^ its steady wear 
and pressure, bore up bravely and well, counting the days. 
Of course, from the hour of his entrance into the house, 
next to the sick man, the young physician was the object 
and centre of interest to the whole household. For the 
first day or two he had apparently opened himself out to 
the ladies without reserve. For the two or three days 
afterward his manner underwent a change in this respect, 
and he presented an instance of arrested development. 
Something of mystery, of withholding himself as it 
seemed to them, — not so much an air of reserve, but 
something lilve a veil, a mist, — enveloped him, which he 
did not put aside, and which they respected. He was 


278 


EDITH GEOVER. 


purely the physician, and nothing more. In this capacity 
nothing could surpass his care and attention, and in this 
character they soon came to rest upon him their entire 
confidence. He evinced no interest in them or their sur- 
roundings, save as connected with his patient. 

In marked contrast with the rough, brush manner of 
the Western medical men of that day, his air and ways 
were those of the thorough gentleman in the drawing- 
room, the spontaneous manifestation of the refinement of 
soul and intellect which seemed to rule him. He occa- 
sionally noticed a book, a picture, or a stray piece of 
music, in a way which indicated his familiarity with them. 
Of himself he spoke never a word ; nothing of his antece- 
dents, surroundings, or prospects, — who he was, where he 
came from, nor when, nor why of all places he was at the 
Comers. He could hardly be unaware of the stories afloat 
to his disadvantage. Did he care? Was he indifferent? 
Was he proud? Did he take deep affront at the manner 
of Edith toward him in the stage? Did he dislike the 
Grovers? He not only declined the opportunities which 
his office, his almost residence in the house, gave him to 
cultivate them, but he avoided them. To Mrs. Grover he 
was less reserved. Toward Edith his manner from the 
first was coldly courteous. At the end of a week she felt 
less acquainted with him than on the morning when he 
won her unreserved admiration for his daring and skill in 
horsemanship. To her father his manner had the tender- 
ness of a woman, — of a wife. To her mother it was all 
that was respectful and considerate. To herself deferen- 
tial, cold, and distant. Did she care? Was she piqued 
by it? True woman that she was, she wished it had been 
otherwise. The memory of the stage scene, never pleas- 
ant, was constantly with her now, and was a sore memory. 
More than once she resolved to speak to him of it, and 


OTHER IVIATTERS OF INTEREST. 


279 


was on the alert to detect some allusion to it by him. He 
never made the slightest, nor could she invent a way of 
approach to it practicable. In his absence nothing seemed 
easier than to go to him, and say, “Doctor, do you re- 
member our ride in the stage from the Corners ? What 
must you have thought of me ? ” In his presence she could 
not do it. It grew worse and more impossible ; and, in wait- 
ing for an opportunity which never came, it was put by. 

The splendid autumn deepened. The woods were 
aflame with color. The sky was darkened by the flight 
of countless millions of pigeons, and the atmosphere 
thickening with the haze and creamy smoke of approach- 
ing Indian summer. 


280 


EDITH GEOVEE. 


. CHAPTER V. 

REV. MR. HUMPHREY TELLS SIRS. GROVER AND EDITH A 
LITTLE STORY, AND ALL THAT HE KNOWS ABOUT IT. 

Rev. Mr. Humphrey was one of the first to bear the 
covenant of faith into the Ohio wilderness. Though a 
graduate of Yale, he could hardly, in one sense, be said to 
be 'liberally educated. Orthodox and narrow in faith, 
but all-embracing in charities and practice, he would give 
his last crust to the sinner whom he knew would be lost, 
and travel ten miles through forest and swamps to relieve 
a man whom he believed was elected to perdition. Broad 
and wide in good works, narrow in dogma, genial in his 
intercourse with the world, he had collected a little church 
by the wayside, and withstood sturdily as he might the 
infiuences of Satan in the by-ways and forest-paths of 
the heathen on the Reserve. He was well known to the 
Grovers, who honored and esteemed him as a faithful 
Christian minister, to whom, for his work and missions, 
they made liberal contributions, and once or twice each 
year made it a point, at much labor and inconvenience, to 
attend his church, quite remote from them. 

He heard of Mr. Grover’s illness, and hastened to visit 
him. He could only gaze upon his unknowing form, who, 
unconscious of his friend’s presence, could neither be sol- 
aced by his sympathy, nor profit by his ghostly ministra- 
tion, and after an earnest invocation at his bedside he 
was conducted to another part of the house to comfort 
as he might the stricken wife and sorely-tried daughter. 


REV. MR. HUMPHREY TELLS A STORY. 281 


Vigorous and sturdy, abounding in undoubting faith, his 
presence was a tonic to Mrs. Grover, and not without an 
invigorating effect on the self-poised Edith. 

“And so, as I am told, my young friend Dr. Field is 
your physician ? ’ ’ said the minister, seating himself in 
the drawing-room. “I am rejoiced to hear it! Dr. 
Warren is an excellent man, and so is Dr. Palmer, — both 
excellent men in their old-fashioned way ; but they are 
nothing to this young Field.” 

“ Oh 1 you know him, then? I am delighted to hear it ! 
And he is a friend of yours ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Grover. 
“Do you know him well? ” 

“ Very well, very well, indeed. I can tell you all 
about him, all about him. That is, I mean I know some- 
thing about him,” just then remembering how little he 
knew of him, though he felt in his soul that he knew the 
youth thoroughly. 

“Who is he, Mr. Humphrey?- Where did he come 
from? Fie is a mystery to us,” said Mrs. Grover. 

“Eh, how? Well, in fact, Mrs. Grover, so he is to 
me, come to think about it. The young man himself is 
as clear as daylight; but about him, his history — really, 
about all I can say is that he is Dr. Field, and I would 
risk all I hope for that he is all right, true, and honest. 
Only one thing he lacketh, I fear,” pausing. “ He came 
— he comes from the Corners now.” 

‘ ‘ Yes ; but how came he. to be at the Corners ? and why 
does he stay there? ” asked the lady. 

“ Well, I did ask him that, and he said it was acciden- 
tal. He was on his way from somewhere to some place, 
and stopped there to feed his horse. I don’t know as he 
had a horse, though ; but he had his saddle-bags or sur- 
gical instruments, and stopped there, anyway, for some- 
thing ; and WiUiins was there, and told him about his boy’s 


282 


EDITH GEOYER. 


leg, and that Dr. Warren had decided to cut it off, and 
the boy begged that it should not be done ; and Field got' 
interested in it, and went home with Wilkins to see it. 
There he met friend Warren, and they disagreed about 
the case. -Dr. Field said it could be saved; and Wilkins 
and the boy wanted he should undertake it ; and he said, 
with Dr. Warren’s consent, he would stop and try it. The 
old doctor refused, and warm words followed. There 
are two stories about it. Warren and his friends say 
that Field assaulted him, and drove him away. When I 
told Field of this, he laughed, and said that Wilkins and 
his wife wanted he should treat the case ; and Dr. Warren 
went off in a miff ; and Field took charge of the boy, and 
had to remain in the neighborhood, and so he put up at 
,the Corners ; and when he got the boy so he could take 
him to Cleveland, a month ago, he had been called to a 
good many cases about the Corners which he could not 
leave, and hadn’t money enough to pay his board-bill, 
and had to stay. The care of the boy was a great thing. 
You know what the Corners are. A good many people 
wanted to get rid of him, and have told all manner of 
stories about him, till he has about made up his mind to 
stay for good, and I hope he will. I never asked him about 
himself. If I had, I am sm'e he would have told me.” 

“Mr. Humphrey, we are glad to hear this, which only 
confirms what Dr. Winslow said of him,” answered Mrs. 
Grover. 

“Yes, Winslow knows him, and sent him here, as I 
understand,” said the minister. “Was that so? ” 

“Certainly. We had heard nothing but ill of him, and 
should never have thought of calling him.” 

“But, doctor, you have not told us how you made his 
acquaintance? ” said the attentive Edith. 

“Well, Mi^s Grover, I have been trying to think how 


EW. ME. HUMPHEEY TELLS A STOEY. 283 


I can tell you the story. It has a real romance — almost 
a tragedy — in it. But it is hardly a tale for a minister 
to tell (though I had a hand in it) , and perhaps not one 
for a young lady’s ears at all ; and yet I want you to know 
it,” looking anxiously to Mrs. Grover. 

“I am sm’e you may tell it,” said Mrs. Grover 
decidedly, looking at Edith. 

‘ ‘ There is a foolish, weak girl — a mere child — in it, 
and an equally foolish boy, and a very much younger per- 
son finally appeared — if I thought I might” — now look- 
ing to Edith. 

“ I am sm’e you may,” said the young lady, with frank 
innocence, without change of color. “And I confess I 
want very much to hear it too.” 

“Well, over the river, and three or four miles from 
me, live the Dykes,” began the assured minister. “The 
old man Dyke is a rough, hard, tyrannical man, well-to- 
do, and the oldest boy promises to be like him. Mrs. 
Dyke is an inoffensive, kind-hearted woman in her way. 
John Dyke, the second boy, is more like his mother, — a 
very good-meaning / boy of about twenty or twenty-one. 
Well, they had Nancy Bank, an innocent, pink-faced 
little thing, unknowing, and only sixteen or seventeen 
years old, whose father is a shiftless man, who lives a 
mile or so from Dyke’s. Well, John and Nancy became 
intimate, too much so and the old folks found it out, 
of course, after a while, and something had to be done. 
John, jun., wanted to marry Nancy, like an honest- 
hearted lad. The old man would not hear of it, and mat- 
ters went on till further delay was impossible. Old man 
Dyke had heard of Dr. Field, as the stories go of him, 
and thought he was the man. He went for him, and 
Field went over. It seems Dyke offered him quite a sum 
to — to — well, to take care of things, so that nothing 


284 


EDITH GROVER. 


might be known of the wicked folly of the young peo- 
ple.” 

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Grover, “was 
Nancy to be ” — 

“Oh, no! her child. Well, when the healthy old sin- 
ner had committed himself. Field required that he put his 
proposition in writing, which he did. Armed with this. 
Field turned upon him, and threatened to have him indicted, 
and sent to the Penitentiary for conspiracy, or an attempt, 
or criminal intent, or something. The old man called in 
the oldest boy, Joe ; but Field was too many for them, 
and the old villain had to give in. John was all right. 
He wanted to be married, and his mother wanted he 
should be, and the doctor had them all called in,’ and it 
was agreed on ; and John went off post-haste to Cleveland 
for a license, and the youngest one came over for me, 
while the doctor tried to keep them under. When I got 
there, old Dyke was for backing out ; and I was present at 
the interview between him, Joe, and the doctor. I shall 
never forget it. If Dr. Field was only in the ministry 
with his heart and soul, he would be the most powerful 
preacher of his day. He went over the whole case ; and, 
when Dyke undertook to deny it, he produced the writing 
with the old scoundrel’s signature. Never did I hear a 
man talked to as was that black-hearted old sinner. He 
fairly shook, and then cowed, melted down, and sur- 
rendered. 

Of course Nancy knew what was going on, and her 
mother was there. The license had been procured, and 
things had gone too far ; and we all went into the best 
room, and John' and Nancy were married as strong as 
law and gospel could make them. It was the most solemn 
and impressive mariiage-ceremony I ever performed or 
witnessed. I tell you, if I didn’t feel inspired ! I never 


REV. MR. HUMPHREY TELLS A STORY. 285 


had such freedom, such power, in prayer. The way, 
broad and luminous, from my soul, seemed opened up 
into very heaven.” 

‘ ‘ Why, Mr. Humphrey ! I never heard any thing more 
thrilling,” cried the rapt Edith, who had risen from her 
seat, and stood bending towards the excited narrator of 
the story. 

“And I never saw a more pleased man than was Dr. 
Field. I looked at him in a sort of wonder, so young, 
and so brave for the right. And that was how I made 
the acquaintance of Dr. Field, which answers your ques- 
tion, Miss Edith,” he responded. 

“What further happened?” asked Mrs. Grover, who 
was even more excited by the narration than was Edith. 

“Well, the bride-wife became a mother that night. 
Dr. Field staid with her ; and she had a fine, healthy boy, 
and she and John get on very well, and live by them- 
selves. My wife and I went and paid them a visit about 
a month ago. She had then just been over to the Cor- 
ners, and carried her boy to have Dr. Field prescribe for 
it. John took her, with his steers and cart, to the river, 
which was so deep he could not drive across it, and he 
set her over in a canoe, and she carried the baby in her 
arms to the Corners ; and, will you believe it. Dr. Field 
got a buggy, and himself carried her and the child back 
to John, who had to remain with his steers.” 

“ He is one to do such things,” said Mrs. Grover. 

“ And that is where that story came from,” said Edith, 
with a look at her mother. 

“ What story? ” asked the minister. 

“ Of a girl going to him with a child, and his carrying 
them away. It was told as a thing which he was more 
directly connected with,” said Mrs. Grover. 

, “Of course, the Corners fellows started it,” said Mr. 


286 


EDITH GROYER. 


Humphrey. “I never heard it, though, before. I have 
seen the doctor only once since, — when he returned from 
Cleveland with the Wilkins boy, two or three weeks ago. 
He came and spent the night with us ; and I found him a 
very cultivated, modest, high-souled man, — one to be 
loved and trusted, a man destined to the highest distinc- 
tion. He. only lacks the one great essential,” and the 
parson sighed. 

“Mr. Humphrey, you make him a paragon of the 
higher human virtues now,” said Edith, smiling. 

“They are human, as you say, merely human; and, I 
am ashamed to say it, I never warned him, nor pointed 
him to the Master ; but I hope and pray that he is one 
of the chosen. It seems as if he must be.” 

“Did he tell you nothing of his former life?” asked 
Mrs. Grover. 

“Not a word, and I never asked him. In fact, when 
one is with him, one is satisfied with him as he is, and 
don’t feel like asking him things about himself. If he 
should be lost finally ! ’ ’ was the answer of the minister. 

“ Mother thinks,” said. Edith/ “ that there is some his- 
tory, something that has happened to him, that has sent 
him from his friends perhaps ; while I think he says 
nothing of himself from a natural modest reserve. Why 
should he talk of himself to strangers, who ask him noth- 
ing? I see nothing remarkable in his being in Ohio, 
except the accident that placed him at the Corners.” 

After an early tea Mr. Humphrey reluctantly left for 
home, before the arrival of Dr. Field, who was detained 
till into the evening. 

On the young man’s return, something he detected in 
the appearance of his patient which called for action. 
He administered a new remedy which he had received 
from Cleveland, and after a hasty tea took his place by 


KEY. ME. HUMPHEEY TELLS A STOEY. 287 

the bedside, where he remained with little interruption till 
toward the next morning. In reply to an anxious ques- 
tion from Mrs. Grover, he said there was no occasion for 
alarm, that there might be a slight amendment, but noth- 
ing decisive could be look for. As it sometimes occurred, 
he was at a late breakfast, — was inclined to breakfast as 
late as he could, — where he met only the two ladies. 

“ A very enthusiastic friend of yours was here yester- 
da}^,’’ said Edith, who observed something like unwonted 
languor in his appearance. 

“ An enthusiastic friend of mine! I have none. Oh, 
yes, the poor child ! ” 

“It was not her, though he told us all about her,” 
archly. “ Mr. Humphrey. ” 

“Mr. Humphrey I Oh, I wish I had been here! It 
would have been a comfort to see the stout-hearted, wrong- 
headed old veteran. He honestly believes that nine in ten 
of the human family were born to perdition, and manages 
to find comfort in that. But he is a practical Christian, 
if the earth holds one, in spite of his faith — so much 
better than his 'theology is he.” 

The elder lady opened her eyes at this way of putting 
it. Without heeding her astonishment, the youth was 
about to resume, when Edith, with the tact of a woman, 
brought him back to what interested her more. 

“He told us all about a certain wedding, and how a 
eertain young M.D. brought it about. It was a genuine 
romance,” she said. 

“ Which interested us very much, you may be sure. Dr. 
Field, added the elder lady. 

‘ ‘ The romance must have been imparted to it by the 
narrator, then,” said the young man. “The old gentle- 
man must have taken liberties with the facts if he made 
them look romantic. It occurred among sordid souls, 
though it had many of the elements of interest in it.” 


288 


EMTH GEOVER. 


“ The things which become so absorbing to others to 
hear of may not be at all pleasant to the actors in them, 
I suppose,” rejoined Edith, a little disgusted at the way 
he crushed the romance out of the tale which had very 
deeply impressed her. 

“ I wish Mr. Humphrey had remained,” said the young 
man, showing that he was not disposed to dwell on the 
episode which was uppermostdn the mind of the ladies. 

“We urged him to stay,” said Mrs. Grover, “but he 
could not.” 

‘ ‘ What a practical Christian he is ! ” said the young 
man, returning to his theme, — “ one who in his own per- 
son realizes the idea of a primitive disciple. For him, 
the Master is only a little way in advance, — has just gone 
along. He can still hear his voice, and see his fresh 
footmarks, and where he has brushed the dew from the 
grass and herbage, and the air is full of the fragrance of 
him ; and he' follows as an eager child after his father, or 
his mother rather.” 

He had never before said so much ; and the ladies heard 
hun with a little surprise, and wondered what more he 
would say. Something had disturbed, perhaps bruised, 
his spirit, and he needed utterance for his own relief. 

“ I am always drawn to the Great Teacher on the man, 
or rather the woman side ; for he is more near my ideal 
woman in love, tenderness, devotion, and soul to forgive. 
I feel allied to him on this human side. He not only 
understands, but will sympathize with me ; and naturally, 
in his character as a physician I am most attracted by 
him. That office is holy to me, set by him apart from 
all callings. I think of him, stainless from birth, with 
perfect, healthy perceptions, and powerful instincts, with 
most acute senses, whose touch is full of power, and im- 
parts a perfect, healthy nerve- force. So pure was he, 


REV. MR. HUMPHREY TELLS A STORY. 289 


that all women at once instinctively trusted him ; so com- 
passionate, that all men loved him ; so sweet, that all 
children fled to him ; so holy and stainless, that he 
stands at the head, the first and highest of all men, by 
virtue of which he sees and hears and knows, communes 
with angels and God, — an example of what man is per- 
haps to attain to, and to which the Teacher may finally 
raise the race of men.” 

This utterance fell from the young physician as if 
involuntarily. There was an unwonted light in his eyes 
and a deep fervor in his voice, that for the moment held 
his listeners as in a spell. He paused ; and, bending his 
head in humiliation, in a subdued voice he said, — 

“ For me, the office of physician is sacred. I would 
dedicate myself to it, try to be worthy of it. To me, all 
life is the most precious thing. Whatever menaces it is 
my enemy. Disease, pain, suffering, consecrates the suf- 
ferer to my best efforts. I feel degraded by taking money 
for this work. I would use all in this ministry. But I am 
so imperfect, weak, unknowing, unseeing, that I shrink 
from my own unworthiness, and am at times half tempted 
to abandon myself to a lower calling.” The depth and 
tremor of his voice left no doubt of his perfect sincerity, 
and the ladies were not unmoved by his words. 

“Ladies,” he said, rising from his chair at the table, 
“ I think this confession of my conscious weakness author- 
izes you to ask me to retire from your case.” 

“Why, doctor, do you want to leave it?” asked Mrs. 
Grover in alarm. 

“It is the last thing I wish to do. It would almost 
break my heart to do it.” 

“ Why do you talk so — so very strangely of yourself ? ” - 

“ It is not strange. It is my frank estimate of myself, 
uttered to those interested in it,” he answered. 


290 


EDITH GROVER. 


‘‘Has there arisen any thing about my father that you 
fear you don’t understand? ” asked Edith. 

“ Nothing. You may see, Miss Grover,” addi’essing 
her, “ that I may perhaps ride a horse, and compel an 
evil-hearted old man to permit two foolish children to do 
what they can to recover from their folly, and yet utterly 
fail to realize my conception of what a man should be.” 

He had arisen, and he now walked out of the room. 

“ Mother,” said Edith, “ I would like to quote his say- 
ing of Mr. Humphrey against himself. He is better than 
his profession of faith. How he suiq^rised me ! And 
what a revelation he made of himself ! What could have 
induced him to do it, I wonder ?” 

“ I see nothing remarkable in the mere utterance. The 
matter was surprising. His estimate of Mr. Humphrey 
was just, very striking, and beautiful ; and what an analy- 
sis of the human side of our Saviour ! And this led to 
the contrast with his own actual self as he appeared in 
the light of the Great Example. One without confidences, 
alone, and brooding much, — I presume our apparent in- 
terest and sympathy tempted him to utter his inner self 
as he did. I am glad he did. It was what one capable 
of such a conception might have said. It marks the ele- 
vation of his soul.” 

“I don’t think I am glad,” said Edith. “If he had 
sto])ped short of himself — It is the only consciousness 
of weakness I have seen in him.” This was said a little 
sadly. 

“ Do you like him the less for it ?” 

‘ ‘ Mother, a question of liking can never arise between 
us,” said the girl evasively in a low, grave voice. 

Her mother regarded her a moment in silence, and then 
said, — 

“ He certainly has a most elevated estimate of woman.” 


REV. MR. HUMPHREY TELLS A STORY. 291 

“ Of woman, — but woman in the abstract. I shall cer- 
tainly trust him as surely as I did before. And it shows 
that he modestly estimates himself. But he had presented 
to me the embodiment of manly strength and complete- 
ness, with its confidence in itself, said Edith. 

“And you did not want him to shatter the image. I 
think it remains quite perfect. And yet all men have their 
weak moments, or where should we come in? ” 

“I don’t regard it weak, after all,” said Edith 
thoughtfully, without explaining herself. 

“ He went away a little humiliated, and will never speak 
of himself in that way to us again,” said Mrs. Grover. 

“I certainly admire his enthusiasm, and it does not 
take from a man, in my estimation, that he should be 
enthusiastic,” said Edith. 

“ Such men usually do things where their enthusiasm is 
in their work,” added her mother. 

“He is poetic, and undoubtedly possesses genius, and 
such temperaments have their ups and downs,” said 
Edith. 

“I call this one of his ups,” replied the mother. 

“ Well, I think it was one of his downs, — clown where 
we saw him quite distinctly,” answered Edith, as if end- 
ing the discussion. 

‘ ‘ I think, ’ ’ said her mother, who did not want to drop 
the subject, “that to the woman who receives his entire 
confidence her commuuings with him would be delightful. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ To the woman who fully shared and appreciated it. 
He loves only his profession. He pursues it for its own 
sake. It is all-sufficient to him. He is utterly indifferent 
to all beside. Even his heroic conduct in the affair of 
this poor Nancy, whom I mean to go and see, had its root 
back in this absorbing devotion which subordinates all 
other attributes, if he has any,” said Edith, with her face 
turned away from her mother. 


292 


EDITH GEOYER. 


“ Edith, you blind girl ! ’’ 

On his way back to the sick ward, the young man 
encountered Ingles, with whom he was on the pleasantest 
terms, and who now purposely put herself in his way. 
He had become a great favorite of hers. 

“ Good-mornin’, Dr. Fields,” she said very sonorously, 
as usual. “I’ve found out about that air baby. It is 
young John Dykeses, an’ you was only takin’ on it back to 
’im.” 

Ah ! But then I was with another man’s wife, you 
know ! That was awful ! ’ ’ 

“ But it was in the daytime. Mr. Fields, why don’ ye 
get a wife o’ your own? An’ you a doctor?” asked the 
spinster gravely. 

“ A wife ! What could I do with a 'wife, running about 
all the time? Who would be my wife, do you suppose? ” 

“ Look behind ye,” coming close to him, speaking low 
and earnestly, and then hurrying off. 

Edith, who was then coming slowly along behind him, 
joined, and accompanied him to her father’s room. He 
had not dared look around. 


DE. FIELD EEGAEDED AS A GENTLEMAN. 293 


CHAPTER VI. 

MRS. GROVER REGARDS DR. FIELD AS A GENTLEMAN. 

EDITH ELECTS HIM AS HER PHYSICIAN. 

Something in the manner of Dr. Field during the day, 
out of the usual, as of disquiet or anxiety, rendered the 
observant Edith more solicitous than ordinarily. Was 
her father worse? Was a crisis approaching? What 
did he fear or expect? Or was it something peculiar to 
himself, not connected with her father? She knew he 
had many patients, and some of them were very sick, 
about whom she and her mother inquired. He was reti- 
cent even about them^ which her mother thought was 
strange. In the evening he merely said he would play 
nurse himself, although he had kept that part through 
most of the preceding night. Somehow, since his words 
of the morning, a subtle sympathy seemed to control the 
actions of these two. Field had returned from his round 
unusually early ; and, though little conversation occurred 
between them, they were much of the time near each other, 
and Edith found approach to him much easier. The cloud 
conjured up by their first meeting in her mind was quite 
dissipated, or had for the time sunk below the horizon. 
As he sat in the anteroom, she went up to him. 

‘ ‘ Doctor, I must be permitted to share your vigil 
to-night.” Her manner, as usual, was quiet, and her 
voice low, with something of decision in it, as if she 
announced a conclusion. The young man looked up into 
her face as he answered, — . 


294 


EDITH GROVEE. 


‘ ‘ Certainly, if that is your wish. ’ ’ 

“I am impressed that you expect something, — the 
crisis perhaps ? ’ ’ askingly. 

“Your intuitions do not mislead you. Miss Grover. I 
do look for a change before many hours. You are cool 
and firm. Your father, as I think, is just in the closing 
or opening hand of a crisis.” ' 

Edith drew a long,' quivering breath, but gave no other 
sign of agitation. 

“I wish to be with him through it. Let my mother 
sleep past it, if she may. Doctor” — a pause — “what 
may we expect?” firmly. 

‘ ‘ I cannot forecast. The battle has been very even : 
a little may turn it. We may only watch and ” — 

“ And pray. Do j^ou believe in prayer, Mr. Field? ” 

. “ I do, and I do not. I cannot bring myself to think, 
that, in answer to supplication, God changes his laws, or 
suspends them.” 

‘ ‘ May it not be one of his agencies ? ’ ’ 

“I don’t say that it is not. In that event, he must 
inspire the prayer. If I believed that it was an agency 
in the ordinary affairs of life, I should abandon science and 
medicine, become as holy as I might, and pray instead.” 

“ Does not God bless effort and means? ” 

“If he contributes any part, why not the whole. Miss 
Grover ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Tie certainly has given us powers and faculties to be 
exercised, Mr. Field, and I think prayer and devotion are 
among them. In what way do you believe in prayer? 
what is its office in your theory ? ’ ’ 

“As a self-preparation to purify, elevate, strengthen. 
By a steady, strong, determined effort in a proper frame 
of mind and spirit, which a true man or woman may often 
have, the soul may be lifted into a serene contemplation 


DR. FIELD REGARDED AS A GENTLEMAN. 295 


of God. Oue may draw himself to a much higher level, 
into a purer and more bracing atmosphere, a clearer 
and broader light, and may thus render himself clearer, 
stronger, and firmer. One thus makes a real gain in 
courage, hope, and power. It is the tonic of mind as 
well as spirit, acting indirectly on the mysterious neiwe 
structures.” - / 

“ Oh, that is much ! ” cried the assured girl. “ Do 3mu 
ever -thus pray ? ’ ’ 

“ Often — I try to. ” 

“ Have you done so to-night?” coming a step nearer 
to him, and speakmg very softly and low, and enveloping 
him with the atmosphere of her presence, — “ for my 
father, and for power to help him?” 

‘‘ Yes. He who would give of his own life would omit 
nothing which might make the offering effective,” was the 
strong, clear answer. 

“And this for my father. Dr. Field?” dropping her 
face into her hands for an instant, with a rush of emotion. 
“ I shall pray, and oh, so fervently ! ” she said, losing her 
voice in a swell of deep feeling. 

“ It is a woman’s right, her refuge, her fortress. We 
alb, even those who would avoid the stains of earth, all 
feel that woman is more to God, and, argue as man will, 
he always feels that God ‘does heed woman’s prayer as 
he does not that of man. I am sure that a man in a 
strait would feel glad to know that a true woman was at 
earnest prayer to help him through. In this wide world 
is there such heaven-sent help for man as woman ? ’ ’ 
The last was as if to himself, an unconsciously uttered 
reflection. 

The depth and sincerity of the utterance of this little 
speech was very grateful to the girl’s heart. Little more 
was said between them, united in a pious vigil, and un- 


296 


EDITH GROVER. 


consciously attracted by the subtle charm which drew 
their deep, rich natures to oneness, and wove itself 
silently and certainly about them, untouched with a color 
of self, or of a direct thought of each other. The un- 
knowiug and' hardly breathing form in their presence 
was the point of union, where their souls and labors met 
in a common sympathy. AVhen that ceases to bind them, 
what will their fortune be? For the time, every act of 
care and attention to their charge they did together. The 
skilled ej'C and touch of the youth were at once 'inter- 
preted to the maiden’s quick and sjuiipathizing appre- 
hension. 

The mystery of night deepened, the breeze fell to a 
wail, a sigh — to silence. The abundant devv' crystal- 
lized ; the eastern stars passed the zenith, ancl dropped 
toward the western horizon ; and the vigil became solemn, 
ghostly. In the later hours the maiden for a brief space 
withdrew. On her return, the young man said, — 

‘‘You were in most earnest prayer? ” 

“Yes.” 

“I knew it; I felt it. You asked for clearness, for 
strength. I was in doubt as to the time when we ought 
to administer an important medicine. All at once it came 
to me, and I feel that the time has now come. I only 
waited for you.” 

Together they gave it. 

“Now, I think you would do well to retire. I am very 
sure your father will know you in the morning.” 

“ Let me remain,” pleadingly. 

Just as the first clear light of day whitened the win- 
dows, he called her to notice how gently her father 
breathed, and the change in the surface of his face and 
hands. His voice had the thrill of deep emotion. 

Two hom’s later, in the light of the sun, which poured 


DE. FIELD EEGAEDED AS A GENTLEMAN. 297 


a golden- flood through a remote window, the eyes of the 
father, from the depth of prostration, struggled up to the 
eyes of the daughter with recognition and the old un- 
clouded love. She bent with her fresh lips to his, cracked 
and blackened, and lifting her eyes, as she arose, to the 
face of her companion, saw tears of devout thankfulness 
falling from them. 

“ He is safe,” he whispered her, “ and I dare not think 
that it is not in answer to your prayers.”- 

“We accept him from God through your hands,” was 
her fervid answer. 

And from that lower plane, the tender, wistful eyes 
looked up into the, to them, wondrously beautiful faces 
over them, both so dear, so like the faces of the blessed, 
— one so new, of which they would have questioned, and 
both to forever after stand surrounded by a common halo 
in the eyes which now saw them. 

Joy in the house of Grover ! 

Joy in all the borders round about. Tender, anxious, 
long- continued care, under the eye of skill, will only 
realize the fruits of the victory. I need only incidentally 
hereafter refer to the upbuilding and uprising of the 
prostrate man. 

On the third of the succeeding mornings Edith arose 
a little languid and heavy. The unwonted feeling brought 
to her mind the warning she had received. The quick 
eye of the young M.D. detected the shadow. As they 
sat down to the table, he turned to her with a look she 
understood ; and with a demure smile laid her hand — 
the same she once withdrew from his eyes — with its fair' 
wrist exposed on the table before him. He laid the tips 
of his fingers lightly on the throbbing pulse, and lifted 
his gaze to her face, when she exposed her tongue to his 
inspection. The gravity of this proceeding alarmed the 
mother. 


298 


EDITH GROVEE. 


“ You are banished from active life for forty-eight 
hours, a tepid foot-bath, Ingles’s herb-drink, warm, with 
an infusion which I must furnish, and moderate perspira- 
tion, a powder to-night, one to-morrow morning, and a 
horseback ride the next day.” Gravely was the sentence 
pronounced, with a smile hovering over the bland mouth. 

“Yes, thank you, doctor — for the last,” with a smile 
breaking the languid face into dimples from the fair 
patient. 

“A horseback ride day after to-morrow! ” said Mrs. 
Grover, immensely relieved from momentary apprehen- 
sion, “ and the doctor will administer his own prescrip- 
tion. I am sure nobody can do it so well,” she added. 

“The last item,” said Edith. “I will excuse him 
from the rest.” 

“If permitted,” he responded gravely. “To attend 
Miss Grover would be the very great privilege of a gen- 
tleman : I am only a very humble doctor, ’ ’ his eyes and 
voice falling, — the only gallant speech they heard from 
him. 

‘ ‘ I elected to regard you as a gentleman from the 
first,” said Mrs. Grover with warmth. 

“ He is my physician,” said the young lady, with a 
look to her mother ; and then she gave her another, a little 
startled, as he replied, — 

“I shall not forget my position,” to Edith. “You 
are very considerate, Mrs. Grover, and I shall certainly 
remember your kindness.” 

Mrs. Grover heard this only as a well-spoken response 
to their words. The younger felt that it had a deeper 
meaning ; that her inconsiderate speech was taken by 
him as indicating the only relation he was to sustain to 
her. Little more was said. All became aware of the 
presence of a restraint upon the intercourse of the young 


DR. FIELD REGARDED AS A GENTLEMAN. 299 


people ; and Mrs. Grover looked from the grave face of 
the young man to the now graver face of Edith, which 
wore an almost pained expression, in a vain effort to 
detect its cause. 

The day for Edith’s re-appearance was bright with the 
sun and bracing air ; and she came forth radiant with 
recovered spirits and vigor, heightened by the steady gain 
of her father. Dr. Field was, for him, in exuberant 
spirits, which detracted nothing from the gayety of Edith. 
At a little before three in the afternoon, in her riding- 
dress, hat and plumes, of deep wine-color, which added 
to the tint on her dark, clear cheek, and deepened the 
crimson of her ripe mouth, with high and joyous life in 
her eyes, Edith stepped out with the young cavalier for 
her prescribed horseback exercise. The afternoon was 
the residue of one of those yellow, creamy days, full of 
voluptuous sensuousness, when to breathe in the open air, 
with freedom from the cares of the common world, with 
a full consciousness of existence, was blessedness. Bill 
had the horses. Jilt and Dick, in the presence of a collec- 
tion of appreciative spectators of the mount and go-off. 
The young man examined the girths of the lady’s saddle, 
took Jilt by the bridle, and led her to Edith’s side, grace- 
fully bent forward to her with his hand for her foot ; and, 
novel as the method was to her, she stepped within it, 
and found herself transferred to her saddle with an ease 
and grace very charming. Her foot was placed in the 
stirrup, her ample skirt adjusted, and the gathered reins 
placed within her grasp by a hand evincing practice in 
that part of a cavalier’s duties. A moment, and. in his 
saddle, he was at her side. Slowly they walked past her 
admiring mother, whom they saluted ; rode down the slope 
and lifted the rise, in a graceful gallop, and were off, — to 
her eyes, as brave and fair a couple as e’er the sun shone 


800 


EDITH GROVER. 


on. As they disappeared, she was conscious of a glow 
of pride In her bosom,* and a tear of joy in her eye. 

The dissipation of the dread, and the release from the 
constant strain of the last three weeks, the buoyancy of 
returned hope, the exhilaration of restored vigor, the 
glow, warmth, and color of the outside world, the springy 
leap of her mettled horse, the free companionship of the 
manly youth who kept tryst with her through the darkest 
hours, and on whose brave heart she had so confidently 
relied, full of young life, and for once, perhaps, permit- 
ting her to feel the glow of a manly admiration, con- 
spired to half intoxicate the soul and keen sense of the 
young woman, with an exquisite enjoyment bordering on 
ecstasy, to which the kindling pulse of her companion 
fully responded. Secure in themselves, in the freedom 
of surrounding nature, the gold, the sun, the wine of the 
wondrous hours, were theirs. They paused a moment 
on the crown of a swell overlooking a wide extent of 
country, and with their eyes swept valley, river, hill, and 
wood to choose their way. By one impulse, they turned 
down the river, with its bright tide on their left, bearing 
the golden beams on its bosom, and throwing from its 
broken mirror the orange, crimson, and brown forest that 
crowned its high western bank, while on their right, for 
two or three miles, lay the brown fields under the autumn 
sun, sloping down from then- woody margins to the fair 
river’s edge. Beyond, their road lost itself in the wilder- 
ness of trees, on which hung the bright torn banners of i 
October. They gave the first minutes to the exquisite] 
sense of rapid motion — wild — fiying over the earth, 
spurned from under the feet of their blooded steeds, the 
beat and play of pulse, in which the spirited animals had 
their full share. 

Then came a relaxed pace, and peals of merry laugh- 


DR. FIELD REGARDED AS A GENTLEMAN. 301 


ter from the heart of Edith, in which the young man 
accompanied her. lie laughed because she did, and 
she, because she could not help it, and then they laughed 
together. The mute wit and wine, the gay humor of 
youth and stirred souls, were irresistible. Then came 
words meaning nothing, only bright bubbles of the spirit 
breaking at the lips, and provoking more laughter ; then 
the words with young life,’ and gay with its warm color, 
bearing fragments of thought, and flashes of wit, and 
little incidents, meaning little to the intellect, but much 
to the heart, gayly told. Little bits of poetry, with 
snatches of song and quaint or tender couplets and rhymes, 
escaped as they entered the autumn-painted wood. 

No word or thought of their brief past, none of any 
possible future, only the joyous now, as if it would for- 
ever remain theirs. 

The light wind breathed through, the woods, showering 
them with ripe, fruity leaves, the aroma of which they 
breathed. Millions of brown nuts rattled down, strew- 
ing the leafy ground they passed over, recalling gay nut- 
tings of more childish years. Countless myriad^ of the 
passenger-pigeons were rioting in noisy glee in the beech- 
thickets, and black and gray squirrels leaped across the 
road, or sat on the limbs of trees by its side, unscared by 
their passage. 

As the exultant bound of spirit effervesced, their speed 
diminished, and the bubbles of mirth, laughter, and song, 
broke on the air, and gradually subsided. Feeling and 
emotion made themselves felt, and found expression ; 
unconsciously deeper and yet more hidden thoughts and 
sentiments flashed out, and took form in apt words, yet 
so naturally that neither was surprised till each was mas- 
ter of the innermost soul of the other. How clear and 


302 


EDITH GEOVEK. 


transparent the sources and springs of thought and emo- 
tion of each lay under the gaze of the other, and neither 
had aught that they cared to conceal, yet never approach- 
ing by word the feeling of one for the other, if such existed 
in fact or possibility ! What should keep these two souls 
asunder, that seemed to tremble in a near approach of 
oneness ? Did either think or wonder what had so drawn 
them out to each other, made communion so easy and 
dear? I know not. ‘I only know that the maiden finally 
became suddenly silent ; that the youth stopped in the 
midst of an unfinished sentence. The sun had fallen 
into the tops of the western trees. The light in the 
forest through which they rode was undergoing the weird 
transmutations of dying day, and shadowy fingers were 
weaving the charm of darkness and mystery which 
deepens into night. Without a word, the two paused, 
turned their horses’ heads, looked one instant into each 
other’s eyes, which seemed to open to the transparent 
depths of their souls. They said no word. As their 
horses turned their heads towards home, they were aban- 
doned to an emulous impulse of speed, and soon passed 
the wood, to where day still lay warm on the open fields 
and eastern forest. Here they restrained their almost 
headlong speed, and Edith’s musical voice was again 
heard in bright and gay words. The young man at- 
tempted to respond. The spell on him was too deep, and 
both relapsed into silence ; and so they returned, just at 
deepest twilight. 

At the tea-table, that evening, Mrs. Grover observed 
an unusual glow on the cheek, and an unwonted light in 
the coy eyes, of Edith, and she also saw almost a sad 
expression on the face of Dr. Field. Both seemed in- 
clined to silence ; and, although Edith warmly declared 


DE. FIELD EEGAEDED AS A GENTLEMAN. ?>03 


that she had never enjoyed a ride so much, she noticed 
that her medical cavalier did not recommend its repetition. 
Then she recalled for the first time the words of Edith, 
that he was her physician ; and she, too, looked gi'ave. 


304 


EDITH GROVEli. 


CHAPTER VII. 

WHICH DEALS WITH A MYSTERY, TWO OF THEM. 

The sick maD, with the freakiness of one whose mind 
was as badly shattered as his body, took a great Taney 
to his young physician long before he could comprehend 
his obligations to him, and when awake could not endm’e 
his absence from his room, and was never content unless 
Mrs. Grover, Edith, and Field were all in constant attend- 
ance. As he recovered strength, which was slowly, he 
exhibited the temper and caprice of a naturally strong, 
self-willed man. In some way he had retained a dream- 
like memory of two beautiful faces bending together 
over him, which he identified as those of Edith and the 
doctor ; and when his head grew stronger, and vision 
clearer, they became very intimately and tenderly asso- 
ciated in his mind. When he was able to be propped up 
in bed, and moved from one couch to another, and looked 
forward to a resumption of his usual apparel, and of 
getting up and out, his strengthened perception detected 
something peculiar in their manner toward each other, 
something of a grave reserve on the part of Edith, and 
of distance on that of Field. This last, Mrs. 'Grover 
had noticed from the day of the horseback excursion, 
and which quite accounted for the reserve on the part of 
Edith. As timee lapsed, this coldness increased ; and 
Mrs. Grover observed, that, when Dr. Field returned to 
the house, he never inquired for Edith if she w^as out of 
the room, and seldom addressed her when present, be- 


A MYSTERY, — TWO OF THEM. 305 

yond the formal recognition of ordinary meeting. When 
he was with the convalescent, Edith was usually present, 
and the mother saw that their bearing toward each other 
was a source of disquiet to him. Of course he had been 
told all the details of his illness, and the care he had 
received from the young doctor, whom he had met before 
his prostration, also of every thing known of the young 
man, and of the mystery which Mrs. Grover felt sure 
covered some of the later years of his life. One day, 
after the young man went out on his round of visits, he 
asked very abruptly, — 

“ What is there between Dr. Field and Edith? ’’ 

“ Nothing that I know of. Why do you ask? ” 

“They have been constantly together for nearly two 
months, must know each other well, and one would natu- 
rally think they would like one another ; but they seldom 
speak to each other, and avoid each other.” 

“ I am sure that is Dr. Field’s fault. So far as I know, 
Edith from the first treated him with the kindest consid- 
eration. But for some cause he has been distant and 
reserved toward her, and she is compelled to have some- 
thing of the same manner toward him.” 

“ It is very strange. He is certainly a gentleman ; and 
a gentleman shows even an ordinary woman some slight 
observance, when he meets her as constantly as Dr. Field 
meets Edith, who is not an ordinary woman. How long 
has this thing been going on? ” 

‘ ‘ Alway, with a few strildng exceptions. On two or 
three occasions I have noticed the signs of great warmth 
of feeling on his part toward her.” 

“Which she repelled, probably,” added Mr. Grover. 

“I think she was pleased with it,” replied Mrs. Grover. 

‘ ‘ Has she ever said any thing about it to you ? ’ ’ 

“ Not a word ; nor have I thought it best to ask her.” 


306 


EDITH GEOVER. 


“You know that in her heart she cherishes contempt 
for all young men, and she has made Dr. Field feel it.’’ 

‘ ‘ I know she has for the ordinary young gentlemen 
whom she has met. But she has the most profound re- 
spect and admiration for Dr. Field.” This last was said 
with emphasis. 

“You are a woman, and can see into these things, and 
must have thought about it : what is it? ” 

‘ ‘ I think the young man has felt himself very powerfully 
drawn to her, as was natural, and is held back by some- 
thing he cannot, dare not, break over. He seems the 
heart and soul of honor and conscience. He certainly is 
very much taken with her, and only avoids her because he 
feels compelled to. Then their acquaintance has been 
very short.” 

“He is poor and proud, has been awfully talked 
about, may think that he is under a cloud, is very sensi- 
tive, and I can sympathize with him,” said Mr. Grover. 
“With all a man’s push and dash, he is often a coward 
where a woman is concerned. He would rather under- 
take a squadron of Wicked Dicks than approach such a girl 
as your daughter, Mrs. Grover. And then he probably 
comes of a family of nobodies.” 

“If there is any thing in blood here in the woods, his 
is as good as anybody’s. Such breeding don’t come by 
two or three years of study, or good society. There must 
be some tie, some old engagement that he has gone away 
from, but cannot escape. Do you know, with all we have 
seen of him, he has never said a word of his life, or his- 
tory, of family, birthplace, or kindred?” 

“ Does he ever speak of himself? ” 

“ No ; and, when we told him what Mr. Humphrey said 
of his brave conduct, he dismissed it rather shortly.” 

“You never asked him any thing of himself, I pre- 
sume?” 


A MYSTEEY, — TWO OF THEM. 


307 


“Well, no, of course. How could I?’’ 

‘ ‘ Why not, in all that must have passed between you 
here, — and you a Yankee woman? He is not here as 
often, and does not stay as much as he did,’’ he remarked. 

“He thinks it unnecessary, I presume; and then his 
practice has much increased, and he has some cases like 
yours,” she answered. 

“ Oh, dear ! I hope he’ll get to them before old Warren. 
Hid he ever say any thing of him, or allude to the lies 
told about himself? ” 

“ Not a word.” 

“ More mystery ! A woman has a way of losing herself, 
and winding up every thing in a mystery, that she may 
fancy there is a romance in it,” he responded a little pee- 
vishly. 

The next day Dr. Field, as usual, aided in getting the 
patient up ; and, after he had been made comfortable on a 
capacious sofa, Mr. Grover, in the presence of the ladies, 
toned to him, and asked, — 

‘ ‘ By the way. Dr. Field, was the Eev. Burgess Field 
of Northampton a relative of yours? ” 

“ He was my father.” 

“ Your father? ” from the elder Grovers in concert. 

“Why! ” exclaimed Mrs. Grover, quite excited by his 
answer, “he married Ellen Winder, the dearest friend I 
ever had.” 

“ She was my mother,” answered the young man very 
quietly. 

“Your mother, your mother! You Ellen Winder’s 
child ? And you came here as a stranger, and did all this, 
and we never knew you — you never tell us?” a good 
deal moved. 

“Why should I, Mrs. Grover? Had I supposed that 
any thing in the world of me or mine was of the least in- 


308 


EDITH GEOVER. 


terest to you, I would have found some way to tell you of 
it. I never had a secret, that I can remember,” smiling. 

“How mysterious!” said Mr. Grover to his wife. — 
“ I knew your father very well. He was the most prom- 
ising man of his day,” to young Field. 

“I confess,” said Mrs. Grover, recovering from her 
surprise, “that I have wanted to know something about 
you, but did not feel that I could ask you ; and as you 
said nothing about it — well, I have a right to now. Tell 
us all about yourself, your father and mother and their 
family.” 

‘ ‘ My father and mother are both dead, ’ ’ sadly. ‘ ‘ They 
had no other child.” As he paused here, an awkward 
silence ensued, which he seemed little inclined to break. 

“I knew little of your parents after their marriage. 
What was their course of life and fortune?” asked Mrs. 
Grover, a little embarrassed by his period. 

“My father gave up his church — had to — before I 
can remember. Some question arose of his orthodoxy, 
as my mother since told me. He came in some way to 
think there was but one God, who would manage to have 
his way, and he gave up his charge voluntarily. Soon 
after, he removed to Warren in Trumbull County, near 
you. He never pursued his original calling there, but 
attempted to establish and build up an academy. In this 
he used up much of my mother’s means, and died when I 
was five or six years old. What my mother had was in 
land and the academy buildings, and we remained in Ohio. 
She died when I was sixteen, some ten, or nearly ten, years 
ago.” 

His voice fell, and almost broke here, and he walked 
toward a window. On his return, 

“You had neither brother nor sister, you say?” ob- 
served Mrs. Grover, moved. 


A MYSTERY, — TWO OF THEM. 


309 


“ Neither, and no relative in Ohio.” 

“ What did you do? Tell us of yourself,” very kindly. 

“ There is nothing to tell. Nothing ever happened to 
me till my advent at the Corners. I went to school till I 
used up the remnant of my mother’s property. Of course 
I had lived wholly with and for her. Never was there 
such ” — After a pause, “ A child’s mother is his ideal, 
as you know, Mr. Grover ; and, as far as a rattle-pated boy 
might, I followed what I fancied would be her wish, and 
tried to become something like what she would have had 
me. At last I was fitted for college, and entered Har- 
vard a soph. An old bachelor imcle, a brother of my 
mother ’ ’ — 

“Philip?” asked Mr. Grover. 

“Yes. Well, uncle Philip, for whom I was named, 
undertook to see me through, for that reason perhaps. 
He died, however, before I graduated, and prudently left 
his property to the church — it may have been to balance 
the account of an undevout life — with no provision for 
his namesake. I may have been born for the study of 
medicine, and what is unusual, perhaps, early felt a strong 
inclination to pursue it ; and, though I never graduated 
from the college proper, I took a very thorough medical 
course, saw much practice in the hospital, spent a year 
in the New- York hospitals, and another in Philadelphia, 
and returned to Warren last spring, undertook to walk to 
Cleveland with the idea of establishing myself there. I 
tried to make a short cut across lots, lost my way, and 
brought up at the Corners. While there I went to see 
the Wilkins boy, whom I undertook to treat, and became 
a resident of that morally salubrious little burg. There, 
Mrs. Grover,” with a sudden glance at Edith, “I am 
sorry to have dispelled any idea you may have kindly 
given shelter to, that there could be any thing of the least 


310 


EDITH GROVEE. 


ioterest in the career of a young fellow in which nothing 
of the unusual has occurred. I am almost sorry that no 
irregularity marked my school or college days, no indis- 
cretion in social life, not even the most innocent flirtation, 
nothing but my luckless meeting with poor little Dave- 
Wilkins’s father.” 

“ Do you call that luckless? ” asked Edith earnestly, — 
“the saving of his limb, perhaps his life? the rescue of 
poor Nancy? Is my father’s life nothing to you? ” 

“Forgive me, forgive me. Miss Grover,” with warmth. 
“All these are much, very much, to me, nearly my all. 
God willed these things as much as 'he wills any thing; 
and, that I was permitted in some way to be the agent in 
producing them, I am profoundly grateful. But these are 
not all a man’s life. It was said by one of old, that a 
man’s life is fortunate can only be determined when it is 
completed.” 

This ground was felt to be delicate, if not dangerous, 
aud no one wished to tread it further. 

“ Your mother was my dearest friend and schoolmate,” 
said Mrs. Grover, approaching the youth with a new in- 
terest and a sense of proprietorship, and scanning his 
person over. “Your hair and eyes are your mother’s. 
Oh, dear ! and so you are Ellen’s child ! I have special 
claim on you, and some right and interest in you, on her 
account. I never saw your father. She was married 
before I was, and we were separated before that event. 
Only to think ! ” 

‘ ‘ I have been so unaccustomed to having any one mani- 
fest an interest in me, that your kindness quite unmans 
me, Mrs. Grover,” replied the youth ingenuously, with 
a little tremor in his voice. “I assure you my mother 
was worthy all your love, and her son shall not be un- 
grateful for your consideration for both.” 


A MYSTERY, — TWO OF THEM. 


311 


The disclosure of young Field’s parentage, and the new 
subjects which it brought up,' were the theme of conver- 
sation at the lunch, now served in Mr. Grover’s room ; 
and they and he continued to be discussed after he rode 
away to answer a” new, distant call. To say that his 
deportment towards the Grovers in any way changed after 
this incident would be incorrect. Mrs. Grover insisted 
that he make their house his fixed abode ; instead of 
Tvhich, as Mr. Grover slowly grew up out of the need of 
constant attention from him, he withdrew it and himself. 
He no longer spent his nights there ; though in his in- 
creased labor he continued to ride Wicked Dick, leaving 
him at the Corners, or at his own stable, as was con- 
venient. 

The revelation of young Field’s history left Mrs. Gro- 
ver as far as ever from an explanation of his conduct 
toward Edith, which she so deeply deplored. She had 
never heard of that unfortunate ride in the stage, and 
the mystery was to remain unexplained. 

One event of late autumn was the attack of Dr. 
WaiTcn by the supposed - awful typhus. Almost every 
thing that appeared that fall, after the illness of Mr. 
Grover, marked with any thing in the least peculiar, was 
popularly supposed to be typhus-fever, and the young 
physician was summoned to it. He was called to Dr. 
Warren at once, and promptly met the call. The Grovers 
were afterwards immensely amused with his graphic sketch 
of that first visit. Dr. Warren’s ludicrous alarm prevented 
his distinguishing an assault of gastritis from the dreaded 
typhus, and the young M.D. playfully mentioned that the 
new patient found quite instant relief from the famous 
cattle prescription which had given the young man a part 
of his early unenviable notoriety. 

“How grateful he should be that you had mastered 


312 


EDITH GROVER. 


bovine diseases ! ’ ’ said Mr. Grover, laughing over the 
ludicrous picturer of the alarmed M.D. 

Dr. Warren’s recovery was speedy, and added greatly 
to the rapidly rising fame of the young man. 

Winter intervened. Mr. Grover was on his feet, and 
accustoming himself to the vast oversize of his garments, 
and to quarrel peevishly over his prescribed allowance of 
food. He began to give attention to affairs, and the fami- 
ly to discuss and arrange for their intended winter sojourn 
in the merry and thriving city of Cleveland ; and Field, 
whom the elders called by his first name from the day of 
the discovery of his parentage, was daily more and more 
drifting out of the current of their life, when an incident 
occurred which led to a temporary renewal, and in a strik- 
ing way, of his professional interest in them. 

He called there one day to exchange horses. He took 
his own to the stable ; and while Bill, who would not per- 
mit him to serve himself, was placing the other under 
caparison, he stepped to the house. In passing an open 
shed near the kitchen, he saw l^fing under it the prostrate 
form of Walter, whom the reader may remember as the 
epileptic son, now suffering from a paroxysm of that dis- 
ease. Field was familiar with the form of the poor lad, 
had admired his fine proportion, but had little opportunity 
to cultivate his acquaintance, nor had his case ever been 
brought to his attention. He ran to the prostrate boy, 
extended his limbs, timied him on his back, and with his 
handkerchief wiped his oozing lips. In this act he passed 
one hand under the child’s head, which had turned a little 
over one side. Instantly he placed the other hand on the 
opposite side, and, with his fingers and acute sense of 
touch, examined the cranium with the utmost care. He 
arose to his' feet, and stood for a moment looking down 
upon the unconscious form with amazement. Then ten- 


A MYSTERY, — TWO OF THEM. 


313 


derly lifting the poor child, he bore him into the nearest 
room, which happened to be the kitchen, and laid him on 
the large table. The act of bringing the boy in, the pla- 
cing him on the table, and the excited manner of Dr. Field, 
usually so cool and collected, produced a momentary 
alarm among the women at work there, which was imme- 
diately communicated to the whole household. The first 
impression was, that Walter was dead. Edith was the 
first to enter the room, who saw at once only the ordinary 
appearances, with which she was unhappily familiar. 

“I think there is nothing unusual,” she said. “I 
forgot that you have never seen him in this condition,” 
surprised at the young man’s manner, and tenderly wiping 
the still unconscious boy’s mouth. 

“Nothing unusual! Nothing unusual!” he cried. 
“ No, blindness and blundering are the usual. See here, 
Edith,” — he had never called her by that name, and 
now taking the hand which he had only touched with the 
tip of his fingers before, and carrying it to the side of 
Walter’s head, and passing it closely over the surface, — 
“ examine both sides. You find a depression here,” put- 
ting his finger on the point. ‘ ‘ He has received a heavy- 
blow here, probably. The under plate of the cranium was 
broken, and forced in upon the brain. My God! ” with 
intense energy, while tears sprang to his eyes, “ the years 
of darkness and untold suffering that have been his ! Had 
he not had the vitality and vigor of a young lion” — 
pausing, and then as if to himself — “ now I know why I 
was dropped at the Corners.” 

“ Oh ! can you help him ? Can you restore him ? ’ ’ cried 
Edith excitedly, catching the meaning of his last words. 
“If you will, all that my life hold&, all that my prayers 
can gain from Heaven, shall be yours,” she said with 
deepest fervor, and bending down she placed her lips tc 
those of the still unknowing boy. 


314 


EDITH GEOVER. 


“I should be worthy of no great reward. I would 
grieve you ” — He interrupted himself, and instantly and 
coldly said, “ No high degree of skill is requisite for his 
relief. Miss Grover. Whoever can with reasonable care 
make an incision, and remove a portion of the shell of a 
gourd, should be equal to this,” with a touch of sarcasm. 

Edith looked at him for a moment in pained surprise, 
and then said sadly, “His case has been submitted to 
the most skilled in the land. Do not think. Dr. Field, 
that he has been neglected.” 

“Neglected! Forgive my unguarded words. You 
little know my estimate of you,” turning from her. 

Walter now began to indicate the usual signs of recov- 
ery, Mrs. Grover entered the room, and Edith made 
known to her the discovery and declaration of Dr. Field. 
She was quite overcome. Upon his questioning them, 
both Mrs Grover and Edith could recall a fall which the 
child received not long before the first manifestation of 
epilepsy. He had climbed up several rounds of a ladder 
standing against the side of a new biiilding, from which 
he fell amid bits of timber and stone. The party ad- 
journed to the room of Mr. Grover, which had been 
reached by a rumor that something had happened to 
Walter. Here Dr. Field, with much care, went over the 
case, and declared with emphatic confidence, that, in the 
present state of the art, a surgeon of ordinary skill could, 
by a not difficult or dangerous operation, restore the child. 
The father heard him with utter astonishment. 

“ Can you do it. Dr. Field? I am sure you can, if it 
can be done,” he demanded. 

“ I can.” 

“Will you?” 

“ I will, if I am deemed the proper man to do it.” 

“Do it 1 do it I And I will give you half I have. One- 


A ]SIYSTERY, — TWO OF THEM. 315 

half of all my holdings in this world shall be' yours,’’ 
excitedly. 

The young man remained silent a moment, and then 
said, “Mr. Grover, the suddenness of this — this discov- 
ery, the newness and gravity of the idea of a recovery to 
you, as well as its importance, exciters you — you all,” 
glancing over their faces, and permitting his eyes to rest 
a moment on those of Edith. “Naturally you overesti- 
mate the skill, and perhaps the danger, of the operation in 
the case. Now, I assure you that it does not require a 
high degree of skill, and the danger is comparatively 
slight, and the compensation should be moderate. I shall 
hesitate under the temptation of the — the unusual offers. 
It makes no difference whose, if competent hands do the 
actual work. The accident which led to the^ knowledge 
that it might be done has happened. If I may be left 
solely to the exquisite consciousness of having relieved 
and restored this child as my reward, I will gladly, rever- 
ently undertake it, and bless God for the opportunity.” 

“Make your own terms, make your own terms, my 
dear Philip,” said Mrs. Grover. 

“If you knew the joy of the real physician over the 
recovery of an almost lost patient, so like the joy of the 
angels over the return of a lost soul, you could estimate 
the influence of money with him,” said the youth, with 
enthusiasm. 

“ In your practice. Dr. Field,” said the now cool Edith, 
‘ ‘ do you not find so much of this high compensation 
unalloyed with lucre, that you can afford to permit some 
of those whom you benefit to express their appreciation in 
this as in other forms? ” 

“Miss Grover, I find it the hardest to approach — to 
answer you, I mean ; ’ ’ and there was a thrill in his 
words as he sunk a little abashed at the warmth with 


316 


EDITH GEOVER. 


which he turned to her. “Your sarcasm is just. My 
compensation in the way indicated quite equals my deserv- 
ings, however my more common wants are met. Let me 
first render this service, if I may.” 

“ I really did not mean to be sarcastic,” said the girl, 
with a sweet sincerity. 

He then explained that in a case of such gravity, involv- 
ing many points, few practitioners would enter upon it 
without the benefit of a consultation of some of the able 
and experienced of the profession. He suggested that 
Walter be taken to Cleveland, where the best aid and 
appliances could be secured which the West offered. As 
for himself, he had no doubt but that a council would 
decide he was right, and the same authority could select 
the surgeon to do the manual operation. 

The earnest discussion of this, to the Grovers, great 
subject, during the ensuing three or four days, resulted in 
their determination to go to Cleveland as soon as the 
condition of Mr. Grover permitted, which his physician 
thought might be at the end of ten days. Edwards was 
despatched to the city to secure rooms, and make other 
necessary arrangements for the winter there, and mean- 
time Field also had to secure four or five days to attend 
them there. Mrs. Grover declared she should detain him 
in the city a week. Among other things she wanted to- 
introduce him to several young ladies there, and may have 
been willing that he should see Edith in society and sur- 
rounded by them. 

Who can tell of all that may have been in her woman’s 
mind. 


CLEVELAND IN THE OLDEN TIME. 


317 


CHAPTER Vin. 

DISCOURSETH PLEASANTLY OF CLEVELAND IN THE OLDEN 
TIME, AND OF WHAT HAPPENED THEN. 

The young Clevelander of to-day can have no idea of 
the Cleveland of the day of which I write. The whole 
city, which now embraces Newburgh, Doan’s Corners, 
and grasps Rocky River, then lay between Lake, River, and 
Erie Streets. Euclid Avenue was a solitary highway, 
running out east, and along a ridge parallel with the lake 
coast ; and Wooland stole away through the woods toward 
Warrensville. Forests lay between the town and far-off 
Newburgh. Central Block stood alone on “ the Flats ; ” 
and cows fed on “ Scranton’s Bottoms.” The Creek was 
a lively place, the heart of the provincial city. Though 
in the woods, it had not then grown to be the proud 
“Forest City,” the second on the Lakes. That narrow, 
crooked river was in constant commotion, crowded with 
lake craft, and five or six huge steamers coming and 
going daily, with the thronged wharves, alive with hacks, 
drays, passengers, sailors, and laborers. 

The survivors of that far-off time were long since lost, 
— pushed from their pleasant places, and overrun by the 
eager throngs of strangers who came to possess, build, and 
rebuild the town, and compel her to overfiow, and absorb 
all her neighborhoods, whose smoke and incense, whose 
dust and clamor, hang like a noisy cloud over all the 
region where empties the Cuyahoga into Erie. In the 
day of the Grovers it was a most important point, with 


318 


EDITH GEOVER. 


wealth, character, culture, fashion, and a name of its own, 
and was, as it has ever remained, the residence of emi- 
nent men, with a circle having quite as much claim and 
real ground for pretension at that time as any which hav6 
graced it since. 

The American (there still) was the leading hotel, and 
with the Franklin, nearly opposite, monopolized the better 
class of travelling guests. Edwards secured fine rooms at 
the American at a cost per week which would now hardly 
pay the bills of a day at the Weddell and Kennard. 

In mid December the Grovers took possession of their 
winter-quarters, accompanied by Dr. Field. The sleighing 
was splendid ; and Field drove the team in the passenger 
sleigh, and another conveyed the baggage. It was a 
sparkling winter day. Edith occupied the seat with the 
driver ; and notwithstanding the presence of the elders, 
which was no restraint, the young people abandoned 
themselves almost as much to the inspiration of gay 
spirits as on the memorable afternoon of their horseback 
excursion. They reached Cleveland by mid afternoon, 
- and were quite prepared to receive a few intimate friends 
who called that evening, conspicuous ^ among whom was 
Mr. Severton, and two or three young gentlemen honored 
with his intimacy, — young men of fashion and fortune, 
and who paid marked attention to Miss Grover, and were 
made acquainted with young Field, who, had he been very 
observing of such things, would have discovered that she 
would be surrounded by very warm and assiduous admirers 
during her residence in the city. For him, he was pre- 
occupied. He had never looked upon the young lady as 
an object open to his approach and competition, and there 
was a graver matter demanding his more immediate atten- 
tion. Did he ever think of Edith in connection with that? 
Did he ever recall her exuberant declaration to him ? I do 
not know. 


CLEVELAND IN THE OLDEN TIME. 


319 


At three o’clock the next afternoon he met the presi- 
dent and faculty of the medical college, and prominent 
physicians called for consultation on the case of Walter. 
At first there was much diversity of opinion ; but the 
young man set it forth with such convincing clearness 
and force, that the seniors concurred with him alike as to 
the cause and necessity, as well as to the probable suc- 
cess, of his pro^wsed operation, the time for which was 
named, and, for the convenience of the patient, at the 
American House. Notwithstanding the courage and firm- 
ness of Edith and her mother. Field withheld from them 
the final arrangements, and permitted them to think that 
three or four days would intervene before the event would 
occur. 

Of that time the Blagden mansion, on Lake Street, 
was one of the most imposing in the city, and the Blag- 
dens were esteemed the favored of fortune, with as much 
claim to consideration as any family in the new com- 
munities. 

A small but quite select party at their house had for 
several days been held in suspense, awaiting the antici- 
pated arrival of the Grovers, and was announced for the 
second evening after their establishment at the American. 
As of their party, the young Medico was honored with a 
card, and accompanied them. The chief of the house, 
Mr. Grover, was still unequal to the fatigue of the party 
given in their honor, and it was understood that he was 
at liberty to retire eai’ly. The drawing-rooms were very 
brilliant, and the guests presented the most of what 
deemed itself exclusive. Many were branches and de- 
scendant of good New-England families, and brought- to 
the Blagden rooms a little of the stately courtesy and 
formality of manner, of society life, of the old school, 
modified by the warmth and freedom of the new West, 


320 


EDITH GEOYER. 


less chilly than a similar assemblage in the parent com- 
munity, and much less rude and sloppy than is the usage 
of the unmannered of to-day. Commerce, banking, and 
the professions were present by many cultivated repre- 
sentatives, among whom a little group of younger gentle- 
men, already widely known, of the Cleveland bar. Of 
these were Andrews, with a finely-cut, intellectual face, 
and elegant manners, sparkling and flashing with the 
keenest, happiest wit, which had no tinge of ill-nature, 
always born of the moment ; and Starkweather, descend- 
ant of an old Huguenot strain of men, with dark,' 
drooping face, and brilliant black eyes, full of bright 
thoughts, which bubbled out in happy expression, to be 
remembered and repeated by others, than whom Cleve- 
land never held two more brilliant men. There were 
Kelleys and Paynes, Taylors, and many well-known 
names of that day, and many beautiful and dignified 
matrons, and a number of very lovely young ladies. 

Edith was one to appear to peculiar advantage, sur- 
rounded by the beautiful of her own sex. Her loveliness 
never seemed so exalted, almost supreme, as when the 
imagination was kindled and helped by contrasts and com- 
parisons. To-night she shone with a calm serenity, which 
added to the ordinary charm inseparable from her. She 
was quite as sincerely admired by women, as men, and 
always gracious to all. As she came from the 'dressing- 
room with her mother, she cast a quick glance at Dr. 
Field, and her observing mother knew that she was satis- 
fied with the result. To him she appeared in a new 
sphere, serenely exalted, and unapproachable to admira- 
tion, and beyond the reach of the ordinary men about her. 
Though in no sense a society man. Dr. Field’s culture, 
refinement, and fine sense, joined with a person of rare 
advantages and address, rendered him quite equal to the 


CLEVELAND IN THE OLDEN TIME. 321 

occasion. Mr. Grover was known. His recent illness 
had been much discussed, and its fortunate issue attrib- 
uted entirely to the skill of his young physician. The 
condition of W alter was also well known to all the friends 
of the family ; and it was already noised about that young 
Field had detected the cause of this misfortune, and was 
now in Cleveland for the purpose of removing it by what 
was popularly regarded as a bold effort of his undoubted 
skill in surgery. The case of the Wilkins boy had made 
his name known in Cleveland. The youth was at once 
quite a lion. Men sought his acquaintance. Ladies were 
proud of having him presented' to them ; and his bearing 
and conversation deepened the favorable impression his 
reputation and person made, and smiles and admiration 
attended him throughout the evening, not at all lost on 
his observing friends, the Grovers. Mr. Grover retired 
early, and carried off his wife. Edith was quite equal to 
the care of herself, and Dr. Field would attend her back 
to the American. In the cii’cle gathered at the Blagdens, 
dancing was only tolerated, was hardly favored, and was 
indulged in by the younger ladies and gentlemen present. 
Mr. Severton had no religious scruples on the subject, 
but looked down upon it from very high ground, with a 
distant contempt, only softened by compassion for tlie 
weakness of those who were partial to it. Among these 
was Miss Grover, of whom he was the professed and 
supposed favored admirer, and to whom, for the evening, 
he attached himself with meritorious devotion. So self- 
sacrificing was he, that he became her partner for the first 
set. It had to be admitted that he was not a graceful 
dancer, and appeared to a marked disadvantage in the 
same quadrille with Dr. Field, who had a little weakness 
for quadrilles and fancy dances, and was quite accom- 
plished in the art, favored as he was by the very pretty 


322 


EDITH GROYEK. 


Miss Blagden, who made no secret of her admiration 
for him. 

The company assembled at seven, and repaired to the 
supper-room at ten, which was then fashionably late. On 
the return to the drawing-rooms. Field found himself curi- 
ously drawn to observing Severton and Edith, and remem- 
bered that they had been a good deal together under his 
eyes that evening ; and he then, for the first time, recalled 
what Ingles had said about them on that memorable night, 
when his ear was taken by the earnest words of a lady 
just before him, to her lady-friend. 

“ It must be so. You may rest assured that no young 
lady looks up that way into the face of a young gentle- 
man without seeing her world in his eyes,” and he saw 
her eyes were on Edith and Severton. 

“ Oh ! it is quite a decided thing,” responded her com- 
panion, — “ quite decided. I have it on good — the best 
authority. The affair will come off some time the next 
season.” 

It was a curious coincidence that just at that moment 
a spasm of pain marked and blanched the young doctor’s 
face ; and the voice went on, — 

“Well, they will make a fine-looking couple. He is 
not quite tall enough for her, and his face is narrow ; but 
he has an intellectual expression and aristocratic cast of 
features.” 

“I don’t think he is to be compared, for looks and 
st3de, with this young Dr. Field. Did you see them when 
they entered the room? I declare they made a sensation, 
and seemed just made for each other,” was the response. 

“ He comes too late,” said the other. 

“ Well, I don’t care, if he restores that idiot ” — 

The young man, at the first mention of his name, 
looked for means of escape. One was at thisTnstant 


CLEVELAND IN THE OLDEN TIME. 


328 


opened to him, and he moved quietly away. On turning, 
his face was thrown back to him from a mirror, and he 
started at its pallor. A minute later, Edith crossed the 
room, and asked him if he was ill. He forced a smile, 
and thanked her for her kind interest. She soon inquired 
the time, and when she found it was eleven o’clock she 
proposed to return home. 

In the carriage she said with some earnestness, “Dr. 
Field, I really hope you are not vain. You must be very 
glad and very grateful for your talents and skill. * I should 
be so sorry to think that you had some man’s vanity about 
personal looks.” 

‘ ‘ Why ? ’ ’ very much surprised. 

“Because. What are mere good looks to a man of 
genius and all that? Genius can beautify deformity in 
a man.” 

“I would willingly change my nature for your good 
opinion. Miss Grover ; and I should feel mortified beyond 
expression if I have exhibited the weakness you speak of. ’ ’ 

His absolute sincerity excluded all idea that he intended 
a compliment. 

“ So many things have been said of you to-night,” she 
added gravely. 

Did she throw this out as a lure to see if he would ask 
what the things were, and who said them ? Whatever was 
the motive, he did not inquire. He may have been warned 
by her first words. 

“And then, atone time,” she resumed, “you seemed 
quite taken with Miss Blagden, as you should be. She 
is one of the loveliest and sweetest girls I ever knew.” 

“ Taken by her, I think would be more accurate. Miss 
Grover,” laughingly. 

“ Or taken both together,” was her correction. “If, 
when a young gentleman meets a young lady, the thought 


324 


EDITH GEOVEK. 


occurs to him, ‘ What kind of a wife will she make ? ’ yoy 
must have found a satisfactory answer in her case.” 

“ I think her a very lovely girl. I really did not think 
of that. I never should. What could a fellow like me 
offer to one like her? ” 

“ She is a true woman. A true man might well afford 
to let her judge of that.” 

Then followed lively words about the persons, the young 
ladies whom they met ; and Edith, in the generosity of her 
heart, was charmed with the delicacy and frank admira- 
tion with which he spoke of them. 

As they were about to part for the night, she asked 
him with grave earnestness, “ When will this — dear Wal- 
ter’s case be attempted ? Oh, how I wish it was all over ! ’ ’ 

“Please do not insist on knowing. Do me this one 
favor, ’ ’ plaintively. ‘ ‘ Why would you know ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Because I shall at that time make special intercession 
with Heaven, as on that night. I shall never forget that, 
nor the blessed dawn,” raising her eyes to his. 

“ Nor shall I. If in any thing I deserve consideratign, 
don’t press me further, I pray. Dismiss this from your 
mind as far as you may ; and some day you will come in 
from the street, and find your brother with his eyes bright 
and clear, with a fillet about his head, and wonder that 
you were ever anxious about it.” 

“You will do it yourself, — say that you will? Should 
it not be ? Heaven will direct your hand. Promise me 
this,” entreatingly. 

“ Anybody can do it,” smiling. 

“And you can do it best. Am I — are we not to 
have this assurance? We shall pray with more faith and 
fervor.” 

“ And what shall be done for the fathers and boys 
who have no such mothers, wives, and sisters to pray for 
them?” 


CLEVELAND IN THE OLDEN TIME. 


325 


“ Two women will alway pray that you may ever have 
guidance,” with fervor, dropping her eyes. 

“ Thank you, thank you ! I will remember that, when I 
most need it, alway,” with emotion. 

She still lingered. “ Must I go without your promise ? ” 

“ I will assuredly do it.” 

“ Good-night, Dr. Field,” very sweetly. 

“Good-night, Miss Grover.” His voice had a tone 
of sadness, and his eye followed her form down the cor- 
ridor. As she turned into her room, he caught a gleam 
of her face. Did she cast a glance back toward him? 
He was uncertain. I think she did. 


326 


EDITH GROVER. 


CHAPTER IX. 

TELLS WHAT FURTHER HAPPENED IN CLEVELAND, AND HOW 
DR. FIELD KISSED WALTER’S LIPS, AND OTHER MATTERS 
OF INTEREST. 

The next was a sparkling winter morning. Mrs. 
Grover and Edith had some shopping engagements, made 
the night before, and availed themselves of the day 
which they were sure would intervene before Walter 
would pass under -the hands of Dr. Field, whose final 
assurance to Edith had given them much comfort, almost 
rest. Very brightly they met him at the breakfast- table, 
and observed a little unusual pallor and languor on his 
face and about his eyes, which, Mrs. Grover saw, yielded 
at once under the words and smiles of Edith, about which 
she had some very pleasant thoughts. 

In that time, shopping was limited to the north side of 
Superior Street, between Seneca and Water, two blocks, 
on which space, however, were many large, well-appointed 
establishments, supplied with extensive and choice varie- 
ties of goods. The ladies had chosen the morning as a 
time when they would be less crowded, and the enterprise 
was one mainly of serious business. Besides, they wanted 
the afternoon for other purposes. 

Edith went forth in the crisp, winter air, in fine spirits, 
and with an unwonted glow on her face. More than once 
her mother turned her eyes to her, with the thought that 
something had occurred, had been said to her, which 
imparted unusual pleasure. She would have connected 


DR. FIELD KISSES WALTER’S LIPS. 327 

it with Dr. Field ; but his rather distant air precluded that 
association, as it precluded the idea that there was mutual 
pleasure ; then she recalled how quickly he lit up under 
her smile, and she was puzzled about it. But they 
plunged into Roosvelt & Co.’s Bazaar with their friends, 
and momentarily these two were lost from her mind. 
But Edith, for some reason, fell or passed out of her 
bright mood, and became absent, pre-occupied ; ran her 
eyes over goods without noting their colors, and passed 
her fingers over them, unconscious of their texture and 
fabric ; spoke at random, then a little excitedly, and final- 
ly relapsed into silence, without making any purchases 
on her own account, saying that she had to see things 
twice, that colors at first confused her, which not a little 
surprised her mother, who fell into something of her 
mood, and they returned to the American much earlier 
than had been anticipated. Something Edith had heard 
that Walter would be further examined that morning, and 
he and the possibilities of his case were palpably with 
her all the forenoon. Upon gaining the floor of their 
apartments, she left her mother, ran forward, and dis- 
covered some unusual appearances about the door of 
Walter’s room, in which always slept one attendant. 
Something came suddenly to her that the critical moment 
had arrived, and her steps were arrested. Just at that 
instant. Dr. Field stepped to the door, saw, and ap- 
proached her. His face was prophetic, or, rather, it 
expressed the fulfilment of prophecy. 

“ O doctor ! ” was all she could say, quite in a tremor. 

“ Forgive — forgive me, if I misled you as to the time,” 
he said, taking her hand, and turning her back towards 
the parlor. “I deceived you in nothing else. Thank 
God ! it is all over, and your dearest wish is fulfilled.” 

“ Thank and bless God ! ” cried the relieved and grate- 


328 


EDITH GEOVEE; 


ful girl, bursting into bappy tears ; “ and, next to God, 
thank and bless you,” covering her face with her hands an 
instant, as she sank upon a sofa. “ May I go to him? ” 
starting up a moment later. 

“ In a few minutes. He will soon recover. You shall 
see him soon.” 

“ Dr. Field, it was your hand? ” detaining him. 

“That was the decision. I had given you my word. 

I would have been spared. He seemed so like you ! But 
I remembered what you said last night. It was not diffi- 
cult. Every thing was as we expected. His restoration 
will be perfect,” and the young man left her. 

“He seemed so like you” lingered in the maiden’s 
mind amid the whirl of sensations which agitated her. 

Her mother was detained a moment by an acquaintance, 
and entered the parlor just as Dr. Winslow and two or 
three medical friends came in by another door, radiant 
and flushed from the common enterprise. He immediate- 
ly capered up to Edith, grasped her hands with warmth, , 
and rushed off to her bewildered mother, whom he caught 
as if he would embrace her. 

“ I congratulate you ! I congratulate ourselves — every- 
body ! ” he cried a little wildly. 

“ Mother,” cried the now recovered Edith, going to her 
mother, “it is Walter. They have — it is through — all 
over, and most successful. Dr. Field has just told me. 
It is all right, all blessed.” 

Then followed a clamor of voices as Mr. Grover and 
others came in. After a little, Mrs. Grover fully compre- 
hended what had happened, and her first rush of emotion 
was in tears. Her first inquiry was for Dr. Field. 

“He is with his patient,” said her husband, scarcely 
able to command himself. “You shall see them both 
soon, my dear.” 


DE. FIELD KISSES WALTEE’s LIPS. , 329 


‘‘ Only think ! ” she said, “ and I never even suspected 
it ! I thought it would not happen for three or four days, 
and it is all over ! How glad I am ! ” 

Then more clamor of voices. 

And then Dr. Winslow broke into an exaggerated enco- 
mium of the absent young surgeon, and wound up with, 
“Just one instant’s pause when all was ready, as if to be 
certain of himself, and one deep, long, quivering breath 
of relief when it was done. Nothing was ever more beau- 
tiful or more perfect. And then he bent over and kissed 
the dear boy’s lips where he lay. Never was there such a 
thing seen before — never!” And his voice was quite 
lost with emotion. 

“I confess,” said Dr. Withers, a frosty veteran, “while 
that was what we call unprofessional, it brought the tears 
from my eyes, and I could have kissed him for doing it.” 

Dr. Winslow turned, took Edith’s two hands, and looked 
her in the eyes in such a way as to bring the warm, ingen- 
uous color to cheek and lip. “I think he did well to 
leave that to other lips,” he said seriously, dropping her 
hands. 

Half an hour later, mother and sister were admitted to 
the bedside of the restored child, whom they found very 
quiet, with a clear light in his eyes. They also found two 
young medical gentlemen in the room. Mrs. Grover 
kissed and shed tears over Walter, and overwhelmed Dr. 
Field with thanks and blessings. He explained that one 
or both of these would remain in constant attendance for 
the present, and that Dr. Winslow would have charge of 
the case. Much more he added, and as if taking final 
leave of the case. His words were very cheerful, and full 
of confidence ; but to Edith’s ear there was in them a tone 
of sadness. To her it expressed something like regret, 
as if now the last thing was done. They had no fmbher 


330 


EDITH GEOVER. 


Deed of him, and there was no excuse for his lingering. 
Not till two hours later did this interpretation of her own 
sensations fully occur to her. 

After an absence of that time, he came hurriedly into 
the room where all the family were, and to their great 
surprise, and spite of their earnest protests, took a hasty 
leave of them. It was in vain that they remonstrated and 
expostulated, and Edith insisted that his presence was 
necessary to both W alter and .her father. 

“You very much overestimate my importance in this 
whole matter,” he answered a little coldly. “You have 
a college of M.D.’s here, all interested in the case, and a 
city full of doctors. There are many waiting for me in 
the cheerless woods, sick, without father or mother, 
brother or sister, — nobody but me. I must go to them. 
Besides,” with a little sparkle that sometimes lit his face 
with gayety, “ they are all I have. If . I remain away too 
long, they might get well.” 

He had a promise of daily reports of Walter’s case, 
when he shook Mr. and Mrs. Grover’s hands warmly, 
bowed profoundly but silently to Edith, and bent over 
Walter with, — 

“My precious, glorious Walter! I have now a right 
to love you,” touched the boy’s lips with his own, and 
went out. 

“ He kissed me,” cried the greatly pleased boy, — “he 
kissed me. Didn’t you see him, Edith?” 

Without an answer, his sister walked hastily to a win- 
dow in silence. 

That evening the “Herald” and “Plain-Dealer” had 
extended reports and notices of the case, with encomiums 
-of the skill of the young surgeon. All the afternoon and 
evening, friends and callers were coming with inquiries, and 
going away with reports more or less exaggerated, until 


DR. FIELD KISSES WALTER’S LIPS. 


331 


the town was full of the name and exploits of the young 
jDhysician. An incision of the cranium, and the removal 
of a small bit of its substance, was an operation that 
appealed to the popular imagination with great force, how- 
ever small the real merit involved ; while there was much 
in the skill and sagacity which led to the discovery of the 
child’s misfortune which seemed to border on the marvel- 
lous. These, joined with the age of the physician, rendered 
him an object of very great interest. 

When the" excitement of the day and evening had sub- 
sided, after the retirement of Mr. Grover, mother and 
daughter sat long, talking over the events of the last two 
or three months, which had thrown Dr. Field into such 
important and peculiar relations to them pcrsonall3^ 
Something, as the reader knows, they had noticed in com- 
mon, peculiar in his manner toward Edith, who would 
hardly admit that she was aware of it, and was reluctant to 
say any thing of that feature of his intercourse with 
them. 

“ To me,” said the mother, “ his manner to you is that 
of one who feels himself very strongly drawn to you, as 
is very natural, but who also feels or fancies that you are, 
for some reason, beyond his reach ; and this, I think, is 
3"our father’s idea also.” 

‘ ‘ More like that of a considerate young man who lias 
no such inclination, and fears that the young woman may 
be too susceptible,” replied the young lady with a smile. 

“Edith,” exclaimed the mother in surprise, “you do 
not think any such thing! In your heart and soul you 
know better.” 

The head of the maiden went down under her mother’s 
words ; and in her soul she heard him sajdng, ‘ ‘ He seemed 
so like you.” With humid eyes she kissed her mother 
good-night. She went again to Walter’s bedside, stood 


332 


EDITH GROVER. 


regarding the sleeping boy for a moment, bent over him 
in murmured prayer, and kissed the lips his had pressed, 
and, with the bashful lids coyly veiling the conscious light 
of her eyes, she passed to her own room. 


DR. field’s EETTJEN TO THE CORNERS. 333 


CHAPTER X. 

CONTAINS AN ACCOUNT OF DR. FIELD’S RETURN TO THE 

CORNERS, AND OF VARIOUS THINGS WHICH HE DID, AND 

OF SOME WHICH HAPPENED TO HIM AND OTHERS. 

The young man took his seat by the driver in the sleigh 
which was to convey him, drew the robes about him, and 
without a glance up at the tall Americari House, with his 
head a little drooping, was driven rapidly out of the city 
on his way back. His advent in Cleveland was an epi- 
sode. Indeed, he looked upon his life for the past six 
months as nothing else, so unlike what he had planned 
had it been. He endeavored to turn his mind from the 
Grovers ; but it would dwell on the incidents of his in- 
tercourse with them,' from the ride in the stage with Edith 
to his parting with them a few minutes ago. I will only 
speculate as to the probable course of his thoughts. It 
will be safe to say that Edith was rarely long absent from 
them, and he may not yet have fully forgotten her manner 
on that first meeting. Sure I am, too, that she had be- 
come for him the one woman in all the world ; and he now 
probably realized to himself how impossible she was to 
him, strange as that may seem. I am quite sure, also, 
that he now looked upon his intimate relations with the 
Grovers as at an end. He very much under-estimated his 
services to them ; nor, beyond the great satisfaction of re- 
lieving Walter, did he take much credit to himself for skill 
in that case. He looked upon himself as in a way forced 
upon the Grovers, how much against their wish he could 


334 


EDITH GEOVER. 


guess by the manner of Edith toward him at their first 
meeting. The exigency was passed ; and, ingenuous as he 
was by nature, it seemed to him now, that he should 
retire from all seeming clmm upon their favor or friend- 
ship, and leave them unembarrassed from any pretence of 
claim upon them. His relation to them was purely a pro- 
fessional business matter, and must stand on that ground 
atone. That there was now no excuse for continuing his 
intimacy with them was clear to him. They were more 
than kind to him, and it was in the nature of such persons 
to be this to any one under the same circumstances. He 
was too proud and sensitive to avail himself of this kind- 
ness, forced from them, in a way, by the hand of affliction. 
He doubtless felt that Edith was altogether too dangerous 
to his peace, — he a young country doctor, with but his 
saddle-bags, “a peddler of pills.” He was separated 
from her now for the winter ; and by the time of her return 
he would be fully schooled to the thought that she was the 
destined wife of another, certainly was never to be his. 

Then he did not quite like Mr. Grover. He could tol- 
erate and make allowances for the first days of convales- 
cence ; but the imperious way in which he would absorb 
his own life and labors, and draw them to his narrow, self- 
ish comfort and convenience, was repulsive to the young 
man’s notions, and may have wounded his self-love. He 
felt that the regard of Mrs. Grover for him was warm and 
genuine, and he did not intend wholly to forego it, but 
would enjoy it sparingly. The thought of playing upon 
it for any purpose could never enter his mind. She was 
a woman, a friend of his mother, to be loved, served, and 
reverenced, not to be used. Edith — she had merely 
elected him as a physician, and might never need him. 
It was in part because he felt that his love could not run 
and thrive in the most natural channels where it would 


DR. field’s return TO THE- CORNERS. 335 


run, that he unconsciously took Walter into the depths of 
his regard with much of the warmth and devotion which 
women only usually inspire in the hearts of men. He was 
a refuge, where his wealth of love and tenderness might 
find sanctuary, and no one would question his right. He 
doubtless felt that he had materially contributed to his 
life, had rendered that life a blessing, and had a sense of 
proprietorship in him. One thing about it, save in a 
vague way, nothing had been said between Mr. Grover 
and himself of money or pecuniary compensation, and, so 
far as he was concerned, there never would be. The idea 
of taking money from them, of being paid off in full, for 
the vigils in which Edith had shared, was exquisitely re- 
pulsive. To present a bill and have it receipted, settled — 
well, he had never made an entry in any book, and never 
should. Indeed, book-keeping was not his strong point. 
He was quite aware that he had commenced his profes- 
sional career with little reference to business principles of 
any kind, for which he intended to feel regret hereafter, 
and, so far as moiiey was concerned, was in a bad way. 
He owed for his board, for his horse and its keeping, and 
a good many owed him ; and that was the way of it. That 
was the time when everybody owed everybody else, and 
few paid anybody, save in the raw produce of the country. 
Yet just how he should manage to have his debtors cancel 
the demands of his creditors was a problem which was 
dismissed as insol vable as often as it came up. 

Some two hours took him south-easterly to the Chagrin 
liiver, and out of that world of warmth and color, of 
which he was a centre, in the city. Before him lay the 
river under its wintry armor, and the wooded hills, cov 
ered with snow, now darkening under the black plumes of 
down-coming night. The atmosphere had been softening ; 
and there was the ominous silence and deepening spell of 


336 


EDITH GROVER. 


an approaching thaw, — that process of mystery in the 
economy of nature, the oncoming of which in mid winter 
steals on the consciousness of men before the signs are 
apparent to the eye. Beyond the melancholy hills was all 
the home and home-life known to the solitary youth. 
Through all this now-sinking snow lay the highways and 
byways, the battles of his daily life, ministering as he 
could to the ague and fever-stricken inmates of the scat- 
tered huts, cabins, hovels, and homes of the settlers of a 
region then more populous than now. He shuddered as 
he thought of the sordid Corners, and felt for a moment 
that the enthusiasm of his nature was lying almost dead 
and cold within him. Night was in his large melancholy 
eyes, and setting his lips in uncomplaining firmness, as 
Edith and her atmosphere of warmth, beauty, and color 
fiashed on and filled his soul for one moment ; and the 
next he faced the cold, empty, real life before him 
unshrinkingly. 

Nothing in the world was farther from the j^oung man’s 
heart than setting himself up as a reformer of his fellows. 
An accident had placed him at the Corners. He had un- 
knowingly become an object of active enmity. At once, in 
the arousing of the latent elements of his strong nature, 
his foes found a powerful re-action upon themselves. The 
vulgar stories about him, as he became known, died out 
rapidly. Men and women were drawn to him. He soon 
discovered all his surroundings, and lent himself, with the 
power of his rapidly-growing popularity and the enthusi- 
asm of his nature, to the other needs of the people about 
him. 

At his request Mr. Humphrey came over, late in the 
autumn, and preached at the Corners ; and his earnest, 
hearty words of practical morality were not lost, and an 
arrangement was made by which he would continue his 


DR. field’s return TO THE CORNERS. 337 

labors there. A circuit-rider, one of the resolute self- 
devoted men of that day, was induced to include the 
Corners in his round. Dr. Field was also instrumental in 
securing the services of a young Wilder, an undergradu- 
ate of the infant Western Reserve College at Hudson, to 
teach a winter school at the Corners, and contributed ma- 
terially to its organization and maintenance, upon a basis 
that appealed to the shrewd New-England people of the 
neighborhood, all of whom, within reach, patronized it 
without reference to district lines ; and it became from the 
start almost an institution. 

Young Wilder was a man of vigorous mind, and be- 
came a great admirer of the young M.D. ; and the two, 
drawing to themselves all the young people of the better- 
to-do, became the ruling power. A singing-school was 
established ; and, later something like a course of lectures 
was started, the young men contributing largely in this 
field, aided by clergymen and men of culture from the 
surrounding country. All these things, still in their 
infancy, in the dearth of intellectual or other attraction 
in that wide region, were rapidly making the Corners an 
important centre, where, for half of the evenings, some- 
thing was going on which drew the most intelligent people 
for many miles together. 

Some opposition was at the first attempted ; but the vigor 
of the new life and spirit was too great and hearty, and 
already the proprietor of the largest of the two taverns 
kept there, the headquarters of the most dangerous ele- 
ments of the place, was negotiating a sale of the property 
to a well-to-do farmer of the neighborhood, which was 
soon after accomplished, and possession to be given on 
New Year’s Day. 

The other house was the residence, and held the office, 
of Dr. Field. From an alien element, regarded with dis- 


338 


EDITH GROVER. 


like and apprehension, the young man became an attrac- 
tion. His presence led to a change in some of the 
offensive features of the house ; and as he became known, 
and his fame extended, as that of a man may in a few 
weeks in a new country, the hotel changed to a resort of 
the better class who had occasion for a public-house. 
This winter it was the headquarters of the new departure, 
where the intelligent patrons of the school, the singing- 
classes, and the members of the lyceum, were constantly 
resorting, to the great improvement of the character of 
the place. While these important changes had their 
origin with young Field, and for which he had the credit, 
it must be said that he did not come to this labor like a 
young prophet, or an evangelist, born to a mission. The 
kindness of his nature, the activity of his sympathies, 
compelled him to observe his sun’oundings ; but his spirit 
was aroused, and he was called to action, by the enmity 
of a few, who regarded his presence at the Corners as a 
dangerous encroachment. Instead of a direct war on 
them, or contradicting their slanders of himself, he deter- 
mined’ to create an influence that should render the Corners 
a less desirable residence for them. 

As, in the empty silence of the evening, he now went 
back to all these things and to his former daily life, the 
cases of his different patients, one after another, passed 
in review through his mind ; and, when he stepped from 
the sleigh at the door of his hotel, he was quite prepared 
to take up the old burdens where he laid them down three 
days before, if not with quite the old enthusiasm, with 
all the old determination and self-abnegation which kin- 
dle to enthusiasm. 

Wilder, the singing-master, and two or three friends, 
were awaiting his arrival, and received him with warmth. 
At the supper-table he gave them a lively picture of his 


DR. field’s return TO THE CORNERS. 339 

city experience, and then turned to the course of events 
at the Corners. It is possible that those who studied his 
face closely after his return may have observed a shade 
of gravity, bordering on sadness, not before perceptible. 

The next morning, with Dick, whom he had broken to 
harness in a limher-peter^ he went on the yielding snow, 
his old round of ministration among his patients. He 
met men with ox-teams hauling logs to mill ; passed empty 
woodlands, where the choppers were busy felling trees, 
there regarded as man’s principal enemies ; by log-barns, 
from which came the measured beat of the thrashers’ 
flails, now low and smothered, now loud and resonant ; 
past the rude works of the boilers of black salt, envel- 
oped in clouds of steam ; meeting troops of bright-eyed 
boys, and ruddy-faced girls, on their way to school ; seeing 
by the wayside men piling up huge heaps of logs near 
their cabins for fuel, men feeding young cattle with corn- 
stalks in remote fields, or chopping down maple, elm, and 
bass-wood trees, from which they would browse ; hearing 
an occasional report of the deer-stalker’s rifle in the 
depths of the forest ; meeting boys with yokes of strong, 
half -wild steers, which, with many a shout and tussle, 
they were breaking to work in the snow ; and here and 
there a man with a colt harnessed in a limber-peter^ the 
runners of which were also the shafts, occasionally he 
met or passed a farmer with his wife and babies in a 
rough, snug box on an ox-sled, on their way to a store 
or going for a visit, encountering all the varieties of em- 
ployment and pastime incident to winter life in that day 
oi primitive customs. 

A day or two later came the papers from Cleveland, 
with their inflated reports of Walter’s case, and panegy- 
rics of himself, which he ran his eye over, and, when 
spoken to about them, he dismissed the matter with few 


340 


EDITH GROVER. 


words. Two days later the postmaster handed him two 
letters, post-marked Cleveland, addressed in hands un- 
known to him, — one, apparently, in the writing of a 
woman, firm, neat, and, he thought, very beautiful. This 
he almost crushed in his hand while he first opened the 
other, which, to his surprise, contained a certificate of 
deposit of the Merchants Bank for a thousand dollars ; 
and his astonishment was not diminished by the other 
contents of the letter, which ran as follows : — 

‘ ' Cleveland, Dec. 20, 1839. 

Dr. Field. My dear Sir , — Enclosed find deposit to your 
credit in Merchants Bank for one thousand dollars. Edwards 
has orders to supply you with any money you may need, without 
calling on this, to the amount of five hundred dollars. 

Don’t trouble yourself with making out a bill for charges, leave 
money matters to me. The first instalment only is now men- 
tioned. We hope other ways of evincing our sense of obligation 
to you may be found more grateful to your feelings. 

I am unable to command my hand for more than a business 
note. 

Edith has written for us. 

Most sincerely yours, 

' W. W. Grover. 

The delicacy, consideration, and generosity of this let- 
ter, were fully appreciated by the young man, and may 
have had some effect on his estimate of the writer. Then 
he contemplated the certificate of deposits, $1,000 and 
$500, — $1,500: that was wealth. No amount as due 
him from Mr. Grover had ever even floated in his fancy. 
This was extravagant overpay. He could not accept it. 

Then he turned to the other letter, which had all the 
time throbbed under his hand. There it was, “ Philip 
Field, M.D.,” in the exquisite hand of Edith. She had 
actually written his name. A mist floated before his eyes. 
Poor youth! Here was his sore ordeal. He could not 


DE. field’s EETURN TO THE COENEKS. 341 

avoid it. Would he be strong enough to escape wreck in 
its passage ? Perhaps it may consecrate him more entirely 
to his mission. He walked about his room, with it lying 
on his table, which he approached two or three times, and 
turned away from it again, then turned, took it up, and 
opened it with a firm hand, and paused to admire the 
strong, firm flowing characters, full of grace and a cer- 
tain regular irregularity which made it quite picturesque. 
He turned over to the signature “Edith.” Below that 
was a P.S. with “ E. Gr.” The date was the same of her 
father’s, and he read as follows : — 

Dr. Philip Field. Dear Sir , — As you will see by father’s 
note, he is unequal to an extended letter, and mother lias given 
up writing, and I become their scribe. They know that you will 
mainly wish to hear from Walter. He is doing as well as we could 
hope or wish, — is rapidly recovering, with no signs of inflammation. 
You w'ill rejoice to know that his mental indications are most 
hopeful. Mother repeatedly exclaims, “Walter fully restored, 
body and mind, to grow up to manhood! How can we ever suffi- 
ciently praise and thank God ! How can we ever reward Dr. Field ! 
What a w'onder of skill and Providence it all is! ” In all this my 
father cordially unites. They expect to die your debtors. They 
know that *your best reward cannot come from others. 

Walter is quite conscious of the great change in himself, and 
will in time comprehend, as well as man may, what he owes 
to you. He remembers your parting with him, and you will be 
prepared for an ardent demonstration when he meets you. 

[The young man paused, and ran his eye over the pre- 
ceding, and saw that' the subject was changed without 
a word of the writer’s own. With a long breath he 
resumed.] 

They — my father and mother — have not yet ceased to wonder 
over and regret your sudden departure. Mother thinks you had 
earned a right to a few days of leisure; and both wanted you should 
remain, and enjoy the fame you have won. They ask me to inscribe 
to you some of the very just things, as they call them, and which 


342 


EDITH GROVER. 


are very flattering, that have been said of you, which I have 
respectfully declined to do. [“Of course,” he said, “it might 
inflame the vanity she credits me with: she did quite right.”] 
Dr. Winslow is very attentive, and the gentlemen you left in 
charge fully sustain your assurances of them. They, too, share 
in the admiration of a certain young surgeon. . 

Father misses you greatly. Says your presence was a tonic, 
and that he shall never fully recover until restored to your care. 

. Mother wishes me to say that whatever is needed for any of 
the poor of your patients you must freely call for. Edwards and 
Ingles have orders to supply all your requisitions, where, as you 
know, every thing is at your command. 

She has also charged me with many compliments to you from 
several young ladies, which will be delivered on request. [“ Ah ! ”] 
She also directs me to say that Mr. Humphrey has been here and 
spent a night with us, and he gave a glowing account of the 
works of grace performed by your hand at the Corners. Father 
expressed much incredulity upon the subject, and will expect 
some account of it from you, for which they will know what 
allowance to make. [“Of course.”] 

I am also instructed to say that they shall ask your accept- 
ance of a little package for the holidays, also to urge you to come 
to Cleveland for New Year’s, and they unite in the sincerest 
wishes for your constant welfare. 

Mother will expect an answer to this. 

I am responsible only for translating the wants, wishes, and 
words of my father and mother into written messages to you, 
and regret that my labor has not been better performed. 

Walter sends love, and threatens to send a stick of candy for 
Christmas. Edith. 

P.S. — A ball at the American by the elite of Cleveland will be 
the event of New Year’s. I am requested to say that a formal 
invitation will be forwarded to you, and many hope you will 
attend. E. G. 

The young luau went carefully over with it all again, 
and then dropped his head on his hand, sat for several 
moments in silent contemplation of it. It was the hand 
of Edith, transcribing the sentiments and wishes of her 
parents in guarded language, carefully repeating the au- 


DR. > field’s return TO THE CORNERS. 343 


thority for each statement, with no whisper of a thought, 
wish, or word of her own, not even joining in their wish 
for his welfare. She sent Walter’s love, but no intima- 
tion that she even remembered him. Of course this was 
by the most careful design, and which he would, in his 
sensitive frame of mind, be very likely to misinterpret 
against himself. 

It is true there was one opening : he might ask her 
for the words of the young ladies spoken of himself. 

As he construed the letter, he was not even to address 
a reply to the writer of it. Of course she knew he would 
answer it. The answer must be addressed to her mother. 
He was very glad to hear from Walter ; and by the same 
mail he received a note from Dr. Winslow. 

The first mail west bore the following answers : — 

To Mr. Grover he wrote, — 

Dear Sir, — Your kind and generous letter, with enclosure, 
is just received. You greatly overestimate my services, and must 
permit me to avoid the humiliation of receiving a gratuity under 
the form of a compensation. I beg to return the certificate of 
deposit, but will thankfully avail myself of the offer through Mr. 
Edwards. I assure you that I fully appreciate the delicacy and 
generosity of your sentiments toward me, and I must beg to 
conduct myself so as not to forfeit your present high opinion of 
me. With the profoundest respect and esteem, 

Yours, _ Philip Field. 

To Mrs. Grover : — 

My dear Madam, — Your very kind letter, by the hand of 
Miss Grover, was received this evening. Its warmth touches and 
quite overcomes me. I regard this securing your esteem one of 
the few fortunate events of my life, and only hope not to forfeit 
it. Yours was the first word I received of the hopeful progress of 
Walter’s case, and is exceedingly grateful to me. I can foresee no 
reason why your dearest wishes may not be fulfilled in reference 
to him. You are kind enough to estimate my services in his case 
by your liojies of the benefits which may flow from them. Praises 


. 344 


EDITH GROVER. 


not justly my due, gratitude which I have not earned, are oppres- 
sive to me, notwithstanding any vanity I may possess. To have 
gained your esteem, to have perhaps earned a right to love and 
care for Walter, are to a solitary heart great acquisitions. 

While I am jealous of receiving favors, I shall gratefully accept 
any thing at your hands in the spirit in which it will be offered. 
For my poor patients I shall gladly avail myself of your great 
kindness to them, and for them thank you in advance. 

Mr. Humphrey is very sanguine, and not only overestimates 
what has really been done here, but gives me credit for the united 
labors of all, and many have contributed to the small results' 
already produced. Quite as much is due to him as to anybody. 
The movement was spontaneous, whoever gave it direction. 

I would 'be greatly pleased to meet you again in Cleveland, but 
may not hope to this winter. 

Express my thanks to Miss Grover for the kind manner in 
which she transmitted your sentiments and wishes to me. I 
quite appreciate the spirit in which she rendered that service. 

I am sure she would meet a request which would spring from a 
vanity she was kind enough to deprecate, and which I will not 
ask her to believe does not exist. 

Give my tenderest regards to Walter, and accept my most 
grateful acknowledgments to yourself. 

Sincerely and gratefully yours, 

Philip Field. 

I would much like to know what Edith thought of that 
letter, which of course she saw. It is quite probable, that, 
in saying nothing as coming from herself in the letter she 
wrote, she only acted with that maidenly reserve which 
would prevent a high-spirited girl from doing any thing 
that would look like opening a correspondence with a 
young gentleman to whom her relations were so peculiar. 
It is possible that the offer to give him the flattering things 
said of him to her was an ingenious hint that he might 
write to her if he would, or it may have been a pleasant 
device to snare any little young man’s vanity, which most 
men have, or both. Whatever it was, the youth coldly 


DR. field’s return TO THE CORNERS. 345 


passed the opening, and permitted her to see that he un- 
derstood her guarded reserve, though he may have misap- 
prehended its true source. 

I do not know the springs of thought and emotion in a 
young woman’s heart ; but I have little doubt that they 
sometimes expose proud and sensitive men to much real 
suffering, and themselves to grave misapprehension and un- 
happiness, with no shadow of thought that the cause was 
with them. 

One would think that he could guess what such a girl as 
Edith has shown herself to be would think of such a man 
as Dr. Field ; but it would be the most hazardous thing to * 
do. Whatever it was, the young man will be as likely to 
misapprehend her as to judge her with sagacity ; and,^ if 
he blunders, she will doubtless leave him to correct, his 
mistake as he ma3^ I think it quite certain she will do 
little to help any man in his wooing, sure as I am she is 
too proud and direct to hide her heart from the man she 
would favor, if she was certain that he was seeking it. I 
do not think the young M.D. has the slightest intention of 
going in such a pursuit, as it is quite clear to him that it 
would be useless. I can only narrate what hereafter 
occurs between them ; and, as both are somewhat excep- 
tional, both will be likely to think and act quite unlike 
ordinary people. 


346 


EDITH GROVER. 


CHAPTER XI. 

TELLS OF AN OLD-TIME SLEIGH-RIDE FROM CLEVELAND, AND 
HOW DR. FIELD PLAYED HOST AT THE GROVER HOUSE, 
WHAT HE SAW IN THE LIBRARY, AND WHAT WAS SAID AND 
DONE THERE. 

Between Christmas and New Year a box addressed to 
Dr. Field was delivered to him by Edwards, with the 
compliments of Mrs. Grover. In his sanctum the young 
man opened it, and found a set of gentleman’s seal furs 
— cap, muffler, and gauntlet gloves — of the finest quality, 
a lot of handkerchiefs, and many things such as a fond 
mother would bestow upon a son, among them an elegant 
pair of black velvet slippers wrought with golden acorns, 
such as might have come from the hand of Edith ; but that 
they did or could never crossed the mind of the young 
M.D. , who wondered sufflciently over them, as it was. The 
cap, gloves, and muffler were tried on, and applied to 
their proper use ; but these slippers — he tried them on 
his hands, and held them up in all lights, but never more 
than glanced from them to his large, well-fashioned feet, 
and possibly may have wondered that any one could be so 
visionary as to suppose he would try to wear them. In his 
letter of acknowledgment and thanks to Mrs. Grover he 
was less happy in his reference to them than to either of 
the other articles. 

New Year came, and then the deferred thaw, with bot- 
tomless mud, — March in January, — followed by an 
Arctic wave, only this was long before the invention of 


WHAT WAS SAID AND DONE IN THE LIBRARY. 347 

that boreal name. Toward February came a fearful 
suow-storm, which, when the highways were opened out, 
restored communication. 

Bulletins continued to announce the rapid recovery of 
Walter, while his father remained stationary. That 
winter through all Northern Ohio was long remembered 
for pulmonary-pneumonia, then popularly called lung- 
fever ; and Field was hardly out of the saddle till the 
snow enabled him to drive a sleigh, after the beating-out 
of the roads. 

Soon after this improved condition of the highways, 
came a note that Miss Grover and a party of ladies and 
gentlemen from Cleveland would visit the Grover home- 
stead ; and Field was invited to meet them, and devote as 
much time to them as his engagements would permit. 
Then later came Edwards, with a note from Mr. Grover, 
requesting that Dr. Field would be at the Grover house, 
receive the guests, and take on himself the office of host, 
and give them as much of his time during their stay as 
possible. The request, though novel, was natural under 
all the circumstances, and was in some respects a little 
embarrassing. The party would consist of ten or twelve. 
There seemed no choice but to accept the responsibility. 
Poor Edwards was in consternation, and Field promised 
to be on hand the next day before dinner, when their arri- 
val was expected. By great activity he made his round, 
and was at his post in advance of the time. He found 
the preparations ample, and the winter garrison in a state 
of high excitement and trepidation. Ingles was nervous, 
and more sloppy than usual. Though quite accustomed, 
in her subordinate capacity, to city company, it was in the 
presence of the master and mistress. Now she was a 
sort of head housekeeper, and the expected guests of the 
highest, mightiest, of the city aristocracy. 


348 


EDITH GEOVEE. 


“Every one on ’em the biggest bug in the city, Dr. 
Fields,” she said to him, wonderfully relieved, when she 
knew he was to be her chief. 

“ Yes,” he replied, “ each of them much larger than all 
the rest put together, Ingles.” 

“ Jes so, doctor, an’ a raft on ’em too. Edith will 
take keer o’ the gals — one kin get on with them anyhow. 
But what on airth to do with the fellers, is the skimpy 
part on’t.” 

“Well, you and I will manage the ‘fellers,’ — all but 
this high and mighty Severton. I don’t feel so certain 
about him,” laughingly answered Field. 

“ Never you mind about him. He’s about the peak- 
edest-faced chap ever you seen. Edith’ll see what’s what. 
Don’t you feel oneasy ’bout him, doctor.” 

The sound of approaching sleigh-bells cut off further 
consultation, as two capacious, gayly-trapped sleighs, each 
drawn by four richly- caparisoned horses tricked out with 
every variety of bells, came sweeping up the well-beaten 
track, and swuilg around, with- a smack of the driver’s 
whip, to the main entrance. It was as gallant a party as 
that olden time could have anywhere produced. East or 
West. The young ladies, rich in color, with flashing 
merry eyes, and ripples of laughter ; the young men full of 
the warm_ blood and high spirit of youth, exhilarated by 
the crisp air, and inspired by the companionship of so 
many beautiful girls, were necessarily in a state of high 
fermentation. 

Dr. Field stood uncovered to receive them. Edith was 
in the foremost carriage, to whom he devoted his first 
attention. The party was conducted to a spacious recep- 
tion-room, warmed with a roaring wood-fire, where, amid 
peals of laughter and gay banter, wraps, furs, cloaks, and 
overcoats were laid aside, and the wearers gathered about 


WHAT WAS SAID AND DONE IN THE LIBRARY. 349 


the wide-formed fireplace. Here Edith introduced such 
of the company as Field had not met to the gracious host, 
who, as if to relieve her from any possible embarrassment 
in the position in which they fofind him in her father’s 
house, said to them that he was especially commissioned 
by Mr. Grover to occupy his place, to receive and wel- 
come them, which, in the name of the absent master, he 
was happy to do, and did with the greatest pleasure. 
The words came impromptu, and were rather well said. 

“ You see,” said Edith, “ that Mr. Edwards is so good 
as to be quite stupid.” 

‘ ‘ While some of us are merely stupid, and from no 
excess of goodness,” added Dr. Field laughingly. 

“ Why, doctor, we are told that your righteousness has 
already saved a city over here : so said Mr. Grover,” cried 
the vivacious Miss Blagden, who had met him with much 
warmth. 

‘ ‘ Mr. Grover has not fully recovered his mental vigor, 
I see,” he answered. “A city saved by such means 
could not have been in great peril ; and I am not in the 
least danger of the fatal love of the gods, I assure you. 
Miss Blagden.” 

“You are to be congratulated, doctor,” said young 
Collins, a promising young lawyer. “ If you have sur- 
vived the Corners, you need have no fear of Olympus.” 

Then Edwards and Ingles brought in some mugs with 
hot slings, which were imbibed with appreciative vivacity, 
when the guests, with their satchels and valises, were 
shown to their rooms. 

An hour later the gay party were in the drawing-room, 
paired by the ready hostess for the dining-room. Whether 
out of compliment to the profession, or otherwise, she 
selected the grave and always a little elderly youth. Dr. 
Williams, as her own escort, and assigned Dr. Field to 


350 EDITH GEOVEE. 

Miss Blagden, her especial friend. As they stood grouped 
about in twos, awaiting the signal for dinner : — 

“I fully appreciate,” said the young host, “the kind 
Providence which limited the gentlemen of this party to 
six, while there are seven ladies. Thirteen, notwithstand- 
ing that odd superstition, brings fortune to some of us,” 
with a bow to Miss Blagden. 

“ Miss Grover is aware that every twelve contains a 
Judas,” said Wilson. 

“ Twelve men,” said Miss Grover readily. 

“Miss Grover can have no fear of treason,” said the 
gallant Severfon. 

‘ ‘ I beg to know what reason or accident Dr. Field 
supposes decided the numbers,” asked Collins. 

“ One of the fairest in the world,” replied Field, with 
an innocent look at his partner. ‘ ‘ How melancholy I 
should be marching in alone ! ” 

.“Really, Dr. Field, you are so very gallant, that it 
would be out of nature for me to complain. I -shall not 
be found flying in the face of such a Providence,” re- 
sponded the pleased Miss Blagden. 

The doors were thrown apart, and Edith was conducted 
to the head of the table. Miss Blagden to a place opposite, 
with a lady on the left of the host, while it so happened 
that the watchful Severtoii secured the seat by the hostess. 

It was not a dinner of courses, a thing rarely attempted 
in the West at that day, save on extraordinary occasions. 
The table had not been arranged under the eye of Edith 
or her mother, and had the bad taste of profusion, not at 
all a fault in the eyes of the guests after their long winter 
ride. The service was quite good, on the whole. In their 
graceful devotion to their duties, the young hostess and 
host were quite unaware of the whispered commendation 
they received. To several, their present position at the 


WHAT WAS SAID AND DONE IN THE LIBEARY. 351 

Grover board seemed the most natural in the world. I 
wonder what Edith thought of it? Field — it never en- 
tered his head. 

To Miss Blagden it became apparent that Mr. Severton 
was not of the number who admired this relation ; and his 
devotion to the presiding lady attracted her attention, and 
finally provoked several remarks from her. She may have 
been willing to have an occasion to speak of him, in con- 
nection with her friend, to the doctor. 

‘ ‘ How very devoted Mr. Severton is to the lady at the 
head of the table ! and he evidently wishes it to be no- 
ticed,” she said. 

To this no response from Dr. Field. 

“Do see, doctor, what a self-satisfied expression his 
high, narrow face wears ! ” she whispered. 

“A gentleman distinguished by the favor of Miss 
Grover 'may well feel complacent, ’ ’ was his reply. 

‘ ‘ Dr. Field ! do you pretend to think that in her heart 
she favors him ? ’ ’ she asked very earnestly. 

“Really, Miss Blagden, if you put it so seriously, I 
do not presume to speculate on the preferences of Miss 
Grover. I have no thoughts on that subject,” gravely. 

“Really and truly? I think that is strange,” she an- 
swered, with pique in her voice and manner, emphasized 
with a look. 

The long ride in the winter air imparted an appreciative 
relish to the viands ; and notwithstanding that was the day 
of delicate feeding by young ladies, ample justice was 
done every thing but the dessert by all the guests. 

After the party arose from the table. Dr. Field con- 
ducted the gentlemen to a smoking-room which communi- 
cated with the billiard-room ; and then, with a hasty word 
to Edith, he excused himself, with an injunction to not 
wait for him at supper, and chrove away for the afternoon. 


352 


EDITH GEOVER. 


The guests felt the usual lassitude following their ex- 
posure to the rigor of the day, ere the spirits were under 
the complete restoration of the frame to the wonted tone ; 
and they were a little dull, not to say drowsy, and divided 
themselves into groups or pairs, of easy, lazy gossip, and 
lounged through the short intervening hours, till supper, 
at which Dr. Field did not appear. It was late when he 
came. He took his horse to the stable, and entered the 
house by a back-way, intending to pass through the libra- 
ry, and enter the drawing-room from the dining-room. 

AVith his light, springy step smothered in the rich carpet, 
he had nearly reached the middle of the library ere he 
was aware that it was occupied. As he approached the 
angle, commanding much of the large room, he was 
arrested by a vision of Edith and Severton. She was 
seated, while he stood near, leaning toward her, speaking 
low and very earne’stly. She sat with her eyes averted, 
and turned in the direction of Field’s approach, and full 
of the expression spoken of by the ladies at the Blagden 
party. The man instinctively felt that he was on sacred 
ground, and hastily turned back. He knew he was dis- 
covered ; for he had a glimpse of Edith suddenly rising to 
her feet upon seeing him. His wise course was then to 
have gone forward. He was not equal to it. He hastily 
regained the corridor, lingered a little, and then went di- 
rectly forward, past the dining, to the usual door leading 
to the drawing-room. It was ajar, and he paused an 
instant as there came from it*' a gush of gay laughter.' 
The old spasm passed, and he entered to meet a lively 
fusilade of buffets for his desertion and long absence. 
He found Miss Kelley in a mirthful despair at her failure 
to realize her conception of a pretty Spanish dance, 
neither a quadrille, contra-face, or waltz, though uniting 
something of all. He was quite familiar with it; and 


WHAT WAS SAID AND DONE IN THE LIRE ARY. 353 

when Edith entered the drawing-room, a minute or two 
after he did, she found him effectively aiding the baffled 
young lady in imparting the step and movement to the 
others. Both were simple and graceful, flowing and 
rhythmic, and when they were caught, which was readily 
done, the dance was quite an absorbing thing for many 
minutes, and was followed by two or three other dances. 

Field became aware that he was observed by Edith. He 
felt, rather than saw, that her eyes were constantly upon 
him. His first thought was to apologize to her for his 
innocent intrusion in the library. His second was, that 
what a gentleman should not see he should alway seem to 
be ignorant of, and this consideration he acted on. The 
rule is doubtless a good one. Just at that time he did 
not care to speak to her. He was only a common weak 
mortal, after all. True, he had not had a word from her 
of Walter, her mother, or father, and felt a sort of bitter 
pleasure in avoiding her, and permitting her to see that 
he did. Why should she bring her lover here, and flaunt 
him under his eyes ? steal away from her guests to hear 
his tale? But then why should she not? What could it 
be to him ? She could never be any thing to him, or he to 
her, and he turned away from her. 

After a little, his better nature prevailed. He wanted 
to hear from Walter, from her mother. There was a 
yearning to hear her voice, be near her, — a joy to feel that 
he had aided her, had done for her what no other one had 
been able to do. He knew all the time that her eyes were 
wistfully seeking his, that she had messages for him from 
her mother ; and to refuse her an opportunity to deliver 
them was unmanly, and would expose him to suspicion on 
her part. Come what might, he felt that he had the stay 
of a pride as cold and as high as her own. His heart 
might break, but she should never dream of it. Ho 


354 


EDITH GROVEE. 


turned, and in that frank way which she had so often seen 
in his intercourse with others, but which never, save on 
two or three occasions, marked his bearing toward herself, 
went up to her. 

“Miss Grover,” he said, “tell me all about Walter (I 
am sure you will spare me a moment for that) , and about 
your mother.” There was just a something in his voice 
that a woman’s ear might thrill with. 

‘ ‘ Spare you a moment ! I have been waiting ever since 
your return. You fled from me in the library,” with a 
little emphasis and a smile, “and I followed you here.” 
They turned to a seat a little remote. 

“He still wears his cap,” she said, speaking of her 
brother, ‘ ‘ but is as full of life and spirit, — the healthy 
spirit of a light-hearted boy. His eyes are as bright, the 
heavy look has left his face, and to us he is a constant 
wonder and joy. O Dr. Field!” Her voice vibrated 
with a tremor, and her eyes fell an instant. ‘ ‘ He is a bit 
of a tease,” she resumed in a subdued manner, as if put- 
ting herself under restraint, ‘ ‘ and he asks so many, and 
such questions ! — a boy of thirteen with the mind of five. 
And, do you know, mother is almost as much changed as 
he is. She has quite recovered her old elasticity of spirits 
and hopeful cheerfulness. You cannot — no one can — 
comprehend all that his restoration is to her ; and she 
says that daily it grows upon her, constantly brightening 
and deepening. I am quite hopeful that she will fully 
recover all her old strength. She will build up with 
Walter.” 

Nothing could have been better said than this ; and her 
manner, while a little restrained, was very sweet. As she 
ceased, she looked into her companion’s eyes, as if she 
would have said more, and stopped only because she was 
a little embarrassed. The doctor seemed to expect some- 


WHAT WAS SAID AND DONE IN THE LIBRARY. 355 


thing further, and sat in a moment’s silence, under the 
spell of her voice. 

“ And your father, what of him? ” he asked finally. 

“ Not so well as we could wish, and had a right to ex- 
pect,” she answered with less vivacity, and more subdued 
manner. “ He says he shall never fully recover till he can 
be under your care,” lifting her eyes, which had fallen, 
with frank ingenuousness to his. “Your presence is a 
tonic to him. Dr. Field.” 

“ Which shows that he is in a bad way,” he answered, 
smiling. “ The truth is, Cleveland is a bad place for him 
in his present condition. The climate there would try a 
bronze statue, and I did not expect that he would much 
more than keep along as he was. If he could have gone 
South, or to Italy; but it was too late in the season. I 
think he had, by all means, better come home before the 
winter breaks up, and the lake opens. It is much more 
sheltered here, and he should not be exposed to those 
awful March winds. Another autumn he can go to Italy 
or St. Thomas.” 

“ You will have to go with him,” she said quite gravely. 

“ Next summer will bring him strength and healthier 
notions,” he answered good-naturedly. And then, after 
a pause, “I somehow feel that I owe your mother an 
apology. If I only knew how to frame one,” he said. 

‘ ‘ Owe her an apology — for what of aU things in the 
world?” she asked. 

‘ ‘ For the very poor way I thanked her for her beauti- 
ful presents. I tried hard enough, but I can’t put grati- 
tude on paper. Only think, you have not the slightest 
conception what it is to a male wretch to find himself 
an object of interest and care to such a woman, so gener- 
ous and tender. I really never so fully realized that I 
was so far out of the circle of He stopped suddenly. 
“ I am sure I shall say very foolish things,” he added. 


356 


EDITH GROVER. 


' “I don’t know, doctor: I am sure your words will be 
safe, and probably wise,” she answered very sweetly. 

“Thank you: I am sure you are very considerate.” 
Then came silence. She seemed to expect he would 
resume, as he did not. 

“Your words, doctor, open the way to a thing I want 
to say to you for Walter, about that stick of candy. He 
wants to make you a present, something to commemorate 
what you did for him. It must have intrinsic value, be of 
service to you, and ” — 

“ O Miss Grover ! More presents ! ” 

‘ ‘ What would you have — what would you choose ? 
You will not refuse him ! ” 

“Some little thing, any thing, — a book, a knife, a 
stick, — something the value of which shall be that it was 
his gift, came from him. Think, Miss Grover — I can 
appeal to the abundant richness of your natm'e, I know — 
would you pay me, humiliate me with presents which in a 
way pay me off, and dismiss me? ” 

“ Dr. Field ! for Heaven’s sake tell me what can we do 
for you? ” with great warmth. 

‘ ‘ Oh ! this I suppose — Let it be as you will : it can 
matter nothing. I have no business with feelings, loves, 
or hates. They are luxuries. Friendship, love, can onty 
be between the equally rich, or the wretchedly poor,” with 
intense bitterness, dropping eyes and voice. 

“ Philip ! What have I ever said or done, that ” — 
“What does he say about the slippers?” cried Miss 
Blagden, running toward them with malapropos vivacity. 
‘ ‘ I know about them : I hope they — My ! what have I 
done? ” struck by their strange looks and manners. “ Oh, 
I didn’t know ! Edith — Dr. Field ! ” Edith looked at her 
in blank helplessness, her face blanched, her eyes dilated. 
Dr. Field had dashed himself headlong over the precipice, 


WHAT WAS SAID AND DONE IN THE LIBEAEY. 357 

and would have landed the Lord knows where. Miss 
Blagden’s ludicrous intervention served as a sort of men- 
tal lasso, which brought him to his feet on the ground he 
had so recklessly left. 

“The slippers ? — good heavens, Miss Blagden ! ” he 
cried, laughing at the absurdity of her question, “they 
had quite slipped my memory, with many other things. I 
am extremely obliged to you for my recall. They are a 
dream of some slipper-maker to Cinderella’s descendants. 
I never have tried to put them on.” 

“What have you done with them, pray?” at a loss 
what to say in the certainty that she had marred some- 
thing which had deeply moved them. 

“I hid them from mortal eyes. Years hence, when 
I’m a very old bachelor, with the thin hair combed care- 
fully over the unprotected top of my soft head, I shall 
keep them under a glass, look at them, sigh, and dream 
— an old bachelor’s dream — of the impossible,” very 

gayiy- 

‘ ‘ Doctor, it would be much more sensible to dream a 
young bachelor’s dream of the possible,” she responded 
with recovered animation. 

“He has no faith in a young man’s dreams,” said 
Edith, quite herself, compelled to say something. Then 
the others came rippling about them, and they had to 
arise, and mingle with their guests, and half an hour’s 
per si f, age followed. 

When Field took leave for the night, it was with the 
understanding that he should send down a famous fiddler 
for the next evening, and come himself, with permission 
to bring his friend Wilder. 

Among the excursionists the event of the next day was 
a drive about the country. They went to the Falls, and 
from there a turn around by the Corners to . 


358 


EDITH GROVER. 


“ Surprise the doctor in his jungle,” Mr. Collins said. 

^ They found there quite a pleasant country inn ; and, 
covered and hidden by the snow as many of the uglier 
features of the place were, it was to the eyes of the 
visitors not an unattractive village. They were there 
about noon, and the streets were full of school-children, 
and there was' quite a show of bright-eyed, romping coun- 
try lasses, and some appearance of activity about the 
stores and shops. The advent of the visitors from the 
city, with their dashing teams and sleighs, the pealing 
clangor, and jingles of their “sweet bells out of tune,” 
the laughing, flashing-eyed young ladies, with their gal- 
lant ^ttendants, were a sight never before seen at the 
Corners, and drew out the entire population. The party 
made a little call at the hotel, where Field had- his quar- 
ters, and learned that he went off early that morning, and 
it was unknown when he would return. They then turned 
toward Mr. Grover’s, and went over the road on which 
Edith and Dr. Field jom'neyed in the stage six months 
before. 

Her friend Miss Blagden noticed that the grave look 
which Edith’s face had worn since the night before was 
in no way dispelled on this ride home. I wonder if the 
memory of the thoughtful girl was on the occurrences of 
that ominous ride. 

That evening, Wilder presented himself to the young 
mistress of the mansion alone. He explained the absence 
of Dr. Field, saying that he had been called away to meet 
Dr. Shepherd and Dr. Ludlow in a consultation in Man- 
tua, many miles away, and would probably not return that 
night, as he did not. The abstraction of the young 
lady hostess was in no way dispelled, as her friend could 
see, notwithstanding her devotion to her guests. Nor was 
her countenance more luminous the next morning, when a 


WHAT WAS SAID AND DONE IN THE LIBEAEY. 359 


threatened change in the temperature compelled an early 
departure on the return of the party to Cleveland. 

As they were about to leave, Edith received a hasty, 
verbal message from Dr. Field, of regret and excuse for 
his non-appearance. The messenger returned without 
reply, and the party drove away. 


360 


EDITH GKOVEE. 


CHAPTER Xn. 

TELLS HOW EDITH CAME TO TELL DR. FIELD THAT HE HAD 
BETTER GO INTO THE SUGAR-ROOM, ALSO WHAT HAP- 
PENED ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THAT MEMORABLE RIDEJ 
IN THE STAGE. 

Time passed ; and on the last days of February the 
Grovers retui’ned to their homestead, and immediately 
sent a message to Dr. Field. When he came in, Walter, 
a bright, dashing boy, sprang upon him the moment he 
saw him. The young man put his arms about him, and 
kissed him as if he. were a young sister, and then held 
him olf, and looked at him with a tender admiration. His 
reception by the elders was quite that of a father and 
mother, very touching to the solitary heart of the young 
man. As to Edith, it was afterward remembered, that, 
while his greeting was cordial, he did not offer to take her 
hand, but then he may have been prevented by the effusive 
W alter. 

Mr. Grover, while he had gained some strength, was 
subject to a constant mental depression, and, as Mrs. 
Grover thought, exhibited symptoms of hypochondria, 
needing judicious treatment medicinally and mentally. 
The even, ever-present, tender care of his wife had lost 
its potency, and Edith was almost without power, and the 
roistering spirits of the thoughtless Walter, a positive 
annoyance. 

He wanted to get back to the care and companionship 
of Dr. Field. The first hour’s intercourse between them 


DR. FIELD GOES INTO THE SUGAR-ROOM. 361 

demonstrated to the two women that the tone of the 
young man’s conversation, the rude audacity with which 
he brushed away the melancholy fancies and despondent 
megrims of the unstrung man, were precisely what were 
most needed. He wanted nothing so much as to be dealt 
with by a certain wholesome vigor of which no woman 
was capable, and which they now, for the first time, dis- 
covered was a part of the accomplishments of the young 
physician. Almost instantaneously the application of 
this mental medicament called up the latent powers of the 
patient, who responded to the challenge which the young 
man cast down to him. I am not certain that the restored 
presence of Edith did not furnish a large share of the 
young man’s inspiration. He may have had the faculty 
of calling up the needed power at will, and now felt the 
demand .for doing it. It may have been one of the happy 
seasons which fall to men endowed as he was ; for, with 
even the spice of rudeness which he used, he was to the 
Grovers never so attractive. He reminded Edith of that 
memorable horseback excursion on that autumn day. 

Fortunately he had much leisure on his hands ; and for 
the next ten or fifteen days he devoted himself quite to 
the Grovers, and was very nearly on his old footing of 
intimacy, coming, staying, going, and coming back again, 
and the gains in strength and spirits, in real vigor and 
avoirdupois, by Mr. Grover during this short time, were 
a marvel; so that as the winter finally broke in,' young 
March and spring obtained a firmer, warmer hold, he had 
won back the healthy tone of a man who found his feet 
firm on the earth, and was meditating a renewal of his 
grasp on the world and work of men. 

As he thus gathered strength and confidence. Dr. Field 
withdrew, — seemed to recede as Mr. Grover advanced, 
until finally, as the chief resumed something of his old 


362 


EDITH GROVER. 


liabits and duties, the young man had quite vanished. 
During these days his manner toward Edith had been ob- 
served by both parents, — by the father with a puzzled won- 
der, by the mother with anxious concern, while the young 
lady herself seemed quite unaware of any thing peculiar 
in it. It was remarked, that, while he seemed cordial 
toward her, he seldom addressed any remark to her. He 
never inquired for her, if absent ; and though apparently 
formed to appreciate ladies’ society, and render himself 
acceptable to them, he never offered her any of the atten- 
tions which young gentlemen usually do, and which he 
might have known, in the solitude of the season and ab- 
sence of society, would give her pleasure, and was a duty 
on his part. Mrs. Grover came to suspect that much of 
his vivacity and gay spirits was assumed ; and she saw 
that at times he suddenly dropped to silence and abstrac- 
tion, and she thought that she saw in his frank eyes, and 
about his mouth, the traces of depression and sad thoughts. 
She turned her attention to Edith, and saw signs of a 
change in her manner toward the young man. It was 
like that of one who felt that her presence gave him no 
pleasure, and who met hun only as a favored friend of 
her parents, who merely tolerated her, and never ex- 
tended to her the consideration due her as the daughter 
of the house, or to a young lady of her position, which, 
while she could not resent, compelled her to circumspec- 
tion. In this way March ran on to April, when the visits 
of the young doctor became quite rare. 

To Walter the young spring opened a new world, — a 
world which he entered with the dew of the first morning, 
glittering in the first sunshine. Strong and lithe, free 
and joyous, when permitted to escape from the lessons of 
his tutor, he leaped and ran, called and shouted, in the 
ecstasy of a freshly liberated soul, kindled with the snn- 


DR. FIELD GOES INTO THE SUGAR-ROOM. 363 


shine and blue skies of spring, when spring came very 
real, in the beautiful maple and beech groves, the elm, 
ash, and basswood glades, the warm chestnut-oak and tulip- 
tree hillsides of Northern Ohio. On the Grover domain 
was a grand sugar-maple preserve of a hundred acres, 
with some thousands of those splendid trees standing thick 
on the beautiful slopes, descending southerly toward the 
river, in whose depths the high March sun lingered warm 
and lovingly, and where the soft breezes first came, whis- 
pering over the winter beds of the sleeping flowers. In 
the heart of the forest, nearly a mile from the house, were 
the sugar-works and appurtenances for making maple- 
sugar on a scale and with a completeness of method that 
rendered it quite famous all over the Reserve. This 
“sugar-camp” was a point of wide interest in that re- 
gion, and had many visitors from a distance. As may 
be supposed, it was, in the season, a favorite resort of 
W alter ; and the boy had made it many visits the present 
spring, and found unusually attractive squirrel and pigeon 
shooting in the woods. For some reason the sugar-camp 
had less charms for Edith than usual ; and she resisted 
and evaded all the entreaties of Walter to have a day — 
one glorious time — at the sugar-house. On one of the 
recurring splendid days which marked the close of the 
season, she finally promised to go with him the next 
afternoon. 

The next day came, more radiant than its predecessor, 
with a sky of marine blue, with just a vanishing of hazy 
smoke over the tree- tops, "and the blue-birds calling down 
out of the azure depths, and the songs of the robins 
throbbing up from the earth. Innumerable pigeons were 
busy under the beech- trees, tearing up the bright leaves, 
and gorging the last autumn’s nuts, stowed away in the 
dead foliage. Woodpeckers sent their cheery short-rolls 


364 


EDITH GROVER. 


from the dead limbs of high-up trees ; and the muffled 
drum of the partridge came like the fluttering beat of 
a frightened heart from the mysterious depths of a 
thicket. 

Walter was in a state of exhilaration all the forenoon, 
and ran to the clock a score of times to hurry the tairdy 
time. Edith was in a mood of languid unrest, — had 
been for days, — which she attributed to the season ; not 
drooping, or pensive, but as if some deep chord had been 
touched, sending a vibration through the hidden seats of 
emotion. All the morning and forenoon she went about 
unemployed, with a flush on her cheek and a liquid light 
in her eyes, as if in some way her sensibilities made their 
existence felt. After an early dinner, the two set off on 
liorseback, as some of the road was soft and spongy, — 
Walter with his gun and game-bag, and Edith in short 
skirts, to admit of walking in the woods. The day, itself 
almost a wonder, was not lost on the maiden. The water 
on the still solid ice of the river flashed up lilve liquid 
silver in her eyes ; and already the early spring flowers — 
anemones, white and bluish purple, hepaticas, spring beau- 
ties, and the delicate spray-like blossom of the ground- 
nut, with its tiny flowerets, and innumerable plants and 
buds — were pricking up from the rich mould through the 
leaves. 

A quantity of su*up was to be “sugared off” that 
afternoon, which had intensifled Walter’s wish to be 
present. When they reached the sugar-house, he found a 
copperfull which had just reached the granulating stage, 
and this took his time and exclusive attention for the best 
of the ensuing hour. He continued his application to a 
period after warm sugar ceased to be sweet, had made 
much wax and candy, and blown clouds of bubbles of the 
viscid fluid. Then he took his gun and bag, and called 


DE. FIELD GOES INTO THE SHGAE-EOOM. 365 


Edith for a stroll in the woods, where he could hear the 
calls of the gold and azure burnished male pigeons, and 
the squeaking, snarling bark of the squirrels. They were 
in the room adjoining the sugar-room, where the sirup 
underwent the last process ; and, just as they were passing 
out, Walter discovered Dr. Field riding along the sugar- 
camp road, which formed a continuous trail through the 
woods to another small settlement beyond. 

“Here is Dr. Field! ” said the delighted boy. “He 
has come to see us.” 

“Not to see me,” said Edith, turning back. “He 
does not like me.” 

“ Don’t like you, Edith? ” in amazement. 

“No; and he avoids me,” going to the back part of 
the large room. 

The young man saw them, turned his horse up to the 
place where theirs were standing, left his own there, 
and walked toward the sugar-house. Walter met and 
sprang toward him as usual. As they entered the room 
where Edith was, Walter, remembering what she had just 
said, toned to the young man, and demanded in his 
loud and eager boy- way, — 

“Philip! don’t you like Edith?” The young man 
had just bowed to her, and he turned and looked at the 
boy in bewildered amazement. There the expectant child 
stood with his mouth open, impatient for an answer. 

“Don’t I like Edith?” said the youth. “My God. 
Walter, what a question ! ” off his guard. 

“ She says you don’t, anyway,” added the boy, a little 
abashed at Field’s manner. 

“ She says I don’t ! ” still more amazed, turning a step 
or two toward Edith, who stood calm and cold. There 
was a pallor in his face. “ She says I don’t ! Walter,” 
turning with agitation to the now bewildered boy, ‘ ‘ in 


366 


EDITH GEOYER. 


her heart and soul she knows I would die for her!’* 
This was uttered in a tone and with a manner that added 
to the poor child’s alarm. 

“Walter,” said the now agitated Edith, coming for- 
ward, and taking him by the hand, “go out for a little 
while, do, and leave us.” 

The frightened, uncomprehending boy was only too 
glad to obey, and went at once, when, turning to Dr. 
Field, she said coldly, “We saw you coming, and he 
said you were ‘ coming to see us.’ I turned back, and, 
as an excuse to him, I did say that you were not coming 
to see me. That you did not like me.” 

“ You know that is not true, though like is not the 
word,” he answered firmly and directly. 

‘ ‘ How should I know ? ’ ’ 

“ I love you,” with the utmost fervor. 

“You love me 1 Love seeks, it does not avoid. This 
is jest, provoked by the thoughtless words of a child. 
The brute animals, all things, have been the objects of 
your care, of your tenderness — all but me.” Her voice 
was firm, her form erect and proud. There was only a 
little tremor in the last three words. A moment, and 
she added, “I do not complain.” 

The youth stood with his head a little bent, and a 
tremor shook his frame under this accusation. When he 
lifted his face up, it was very i)ale, with deep lines as of 
torture fixed in it. Once or twice he attempted to swal- 
low a choking sensation. He clasped his hands to sup- 
press their tremor, and in a voice scarcely articulate he 
said, — 

‘ ‘ Miss Grover, I am surprised into saying what will 
pain you, what I doubtless should some time have said.” 
A pause. “My love will speak.” A pause. “It is 
so hopeless, Uiat it has Uttle of earth or passion in it.” 


DE. FIELD GOES INTO THE SUGAR-ROOM. 367 


His voice shook almost too much for utterance, and great 
tears fell from his eyes. A moment’s effort restored him. 
“You will reject this love — have, ere it is spoken: you 
shall not despise it. I can endure your scorn, I have felt 
that : I will not have your compassion.” 

“ Philip, Philip ! ” cried the distressed girl. “ For the 
love of Heaven how have I deserved this language ? ’ ’ 

“You have not. But my love, so silent, so abject, 
rises in its rage, and will not be just.” A pause. “ You 
remember when we first met. I cannot wholly forget the 
cold scorn of that hour.” 

“ I remember. You know the misconception under 
which I then labored ; but, noble as I know you to be, you 
have treasured it up to avenge ’ ’ — 

“ By going madly in love with you,” he interrupted her 
with, in turn. “ I saw your wondrous beauty even then : 
I was afterward, in a way, forced upon you, and saw the 
more wondrous beauty of your nature and soul. I loved 
you from the first. How could I help it? I could not 
even try. Oh, it is no jest ! It was like heaven : it 
was heaven. It inspired and carried me through your 
father’s awful illness, for awful it was. My position, 
your position, made you sacred from the suspicion of pas- 
sion on my part. Then your mother chose to hold me as 
a gentleman, at liberty to pay you ordinary attention. 
You must have seen what I felt, and more wisely accepted 
me as your physician.” A pause. 

The cold and haughty air of the maiden had wholly 
disappeared. She stood with drooping head and averted 
face. At his last sentence she suddenly lifted her head, 
and cast a quick, furtive glance at the young man, who 
went on, — 

‘ ‘ In the warmth and inspiration of your presence on 
that afternoon, I forgot your election. How could I help 


868 


EDITH GKOVER. 


it? You forgot it too, and I showed you my heart and 
soul, told all but my love in words. Then came the dis- 
covery of Walter. He was your counterpart, Edith, in 
another form, — to be served, fought for, and redeemed. 
Here my love found an object, an expression ; and here, 
through little merit of mine, caihe rich compensation.” 

His voice broke, and Edith was no less ’agitated. 

“Forgive me, oh, forgive me! I pain you beyond 
measure. I will detain you but a moment. At Cleveland 
I was told you were the promised of another. ’ ’ 

Edith started at these words, and turned a look of wide- 
eyed surprise upon him, which he seemed not to notice. 

‘ ‘ Afterward an accident, which I thought never to 
refer to, brought me a confirmation of it in your father’s 
library.” 

“ Dr. Field ! ” eagerly. “ No matter.” And her head 
went down again. 

“ I am now awake,” unheeding her exclamation. “ Per- 
haps I had not before fully comprehended the depth and 
hopelessness of my love, certainly not that it had the 
element of passion in it. I have schooled myself to the 
idea that you were to be the wife of another ; to mould 
and temper my own love, so that it might ever surround 
you with service and devotion, without thought or stain of 
earth. I once dreamed of telling you all, as what every 
woman should know ere she accepts a final destiny. It 
could but pain you. When you returned, a few weeks ago, 
I found I was unequal to meeting you daily without some 
betrayal of myself. I doubtless have betrayed myself. I 
do not suppose I have revealed to you a secret.- Have I 
been discourteous to you, wanting in ordinary attentions ? 
Would I not have laid my heart under your feet? Have 
I not done it now? Would I not gladly kneel, and kiss 
their print on the earth, — the ground your shadow blesses, 


DR. FIELD GOES INTO THE SUGAR-ROOM. 369 


— surround your life with devotion and reverent service ? 
I have answered Walter’s question. I cannot apologize 
or excuse. My love is all about you. Pass away from it 
without a word, it will not ndurmur ” — a pause — “ or — 
or — if you can turn to it for help, for comfort, or happi- 
ness ” — He lost his voice, raised and extended his arms 
for a moment, as if to take her, and then dropped his 
hands, and a dry sob almost shattered his frame. 

There was near a full minute’s silence. If Edith waited 
for her lover to finish his sentence, she waited in vain. He 
stopped as abruptly as he began. She was little less moved 
than was he. She made a step nearer him, raised her 
hand, and seemed about to speak, when the door was sud- 
denly thrown open, and half a dozen pigeons were thrown 
in, accompanied by the excited voice of Walter, crying 
loudly, “ I killed ’em all at one shot ! ” followed by him- 
self. Something in the looks and manner of the two, 
apparent even to him, arrested him at the door, and he 
turned his wondering look from one to the other. He was 
a little awed by the appearance of Field, and shrunk 
around him to his sister, as he recalled what was said 
before he left them. 

‘ ‘ O Edith ! ’ ’ looking at her eagerly, as he nestled to 
her side, speaking in a subdued voice, “ don’t he like you? 
I most know he does.. But he kissed me,” a little doubt- 

ingly. • 

“Hush, hush, you darling!” cried the relieved girl, 
stooping, and throwing her arms about his neck, and kiss- 
ing him with an ardor bewildering to him. 

“He does like you, don’t he?” asked the persistent 
boy plaintively. 

“Yes, yes,” kissing him again. He escaped from her 
arms, and appealed directly to Dr. Field, whom the assur- 
ances of Edith had restored to his confidence. 


. 370 


' EDITH GROVEE. 


“What is it, Dr. Field? What has happened?” he 
asked in his innocence. 

‘ ‘ I scolded her for what she said to you, and I have 
offended her very much,” in perfect sincerity. 

, “I don’t believe that,” said Walter decidedly. “He 
hasn’t scolded you, has he, Edith? ” turning now to her. 

“No,” she answered, “though he did talk a little 
wildly. You should not have told him what I said.” 

“Are you angry with me, Philip?” he said, approach- 
ing the young man, and calling him by the name Usually 
employed by his father and mother. 

“Angry with you?” taking the child’s hand in both 
his own. “Nothing can ever make me angry with you. 
You did not mean any harm.” 

“lam sorry,” said the uncomprehending child, quite 
inclined to whimper. 

At this moment an inside door was opened from the 
sugar-room ; and the civil superintendent politely asked 
Dr. Field to go in and partake of the warm sugar, a new 
copper-full having at that moment reached the desirable 
stage. 

“ Oh, don’t, Philip ! It isn’t a bit good,” cried the dis- 
gusted Walter. “You and Edith come out and go with 
me into the woods and see me shoot.” 

“I suppose, that, having eaten five or six pounds, you 
find that sugar has changed,” answered the distrait young 
man, not knowing what to say or do, or how to act, in the 
absurd, ridiculous position to which the betrayal and final 
interruption of the unknowing child had reduced him. 
What could he now say? Clearly nothing more to Edith. 
What could he do ? Should he mount his horse, and ride 
away ? He did not feel like that, however glad to have 
been elsewhere. 

“ Philip,” — what a thrill ! she had called him by that 


DE. FIELD GOES INTO THE SUGAK-EOOM. 371 


name once or twice before, but never as now, — “I think 
we had better go into the sugar- room.” 

He turned eagerly to her ; but her eyes were averted. 
She was no longer the proud, haughty woman who so cold- 
ly confronted him at the outburst of his passion, but 
sweet, drooping, almost timid. She may have had a 
motive. However deeply moved, she was one to recover 
quickly. She may not at that moment have wished to 
have a ramble in the woods with her lover, with the em- 
barrassment of Walter, or at all. He was grateful for 
any suggestion, and complied at once, though I doubt 
whether he was better prepared to relish the exquisite 
maple-flavor than the cloyed Walter. A moment later, 
two or three young people from the Falls (acquaintances 
of Edith) arrived, making a further diversion in her favor, 
of which she readily availed herself. 

An hour later, her friends departed. The sun was sink- 
ing, the air growing chill, and they were compelled to 
return : a movement by the three, toward the horses for 
that purpose, was made by a common impulse. 

Walter handed his gun to Field, and got upon his horse. 

The doctor returned it, and turned to Edith. She was 
standing in an absorbed mood by her horse, and striking 
absently, with her whip, at the plants and flowers at her 
feet. Unknowingly she cut the fine stem of a purple 
petalled flower, as he approached her. The fate of the 
beautiful thing touched him. 

“Spare the flower, I pray you. It could not offend 
5^ou,” he said a little sadly, stooping, and picking it up. 

“ Oh ! I did not mean that ; indeed I did not ! ’ ’ she 
said, with a sweet earnestness. “ Give it to me, Philip,” 
extending her ungloved hand for it. 

The youth laid it on the pinky palm of that beautiful 
hand, which bore no gem, was disfigured by no ring, and 


372 


EDITH GROVER. 


looked at it on its exquisite resting-place. Something in 
the voice and manner of the young man, as if there was 
an omen in the death of the little flower, powerfully 
touched the sensibilities of the girl, disturbed as they 
were, and tears slowly gathered in her eyes. 

“ Philip, do you remember that night of our watch with 
my father, and the blessed dawn that followed it ? ” 

“Ido.’^ 

“ Do you remember that one exquisite afternoon in the 
woods? ” 

“ Can I ever forget that? ” 

“I have never hidden my heart from you, Philip. 
Surely, surely, you should have trusted me.” Nothing 
more exquisitely sweet and tender, with just a tone of sad 
reproach, was ever uttered by mortal maiden. 

‘ ‘ O Edith ! What does this mean ? ’ ’ with trembling, 
eager hope, almost realized. 

She frankly extended toward him the hand which held 
the flower. It was clasped in both his. He bent, and 
pressed his glowing lips to it again and again, while tear- 
drops fell upon it. 

“The flower,” said the blessed girl, “I shall keep.” 
The hand that held it was his. 

“ What are you two a-doing now? ” cried the impatient 
Walter, turning his horse’s head back. “ Never was such 
a two as you are ! ” 

From her unclasped hand Edith took the precious 
flower, and placed it in the upper folds of her dress, 
and said, — 

“You may place me in my saddle, Philip,” and stepped 
from his extended hand to her seat ; and a moment later 
they were by the side of the bewildered boy, who could 
see by their happy faces that there could be no further 
cause for anxiety. 


DK. FIELD GOES INTO THE SUGAE-ROOM. 373 

“ It is all right now, ain’t it, Edith? ” he asked, looking 
into her glorified face. 

“ Ask Philip,” was her answer. 

“It is all right, you blessed Walter! ” was the young 
man’s response. 

“ Whora I ” cried the relieved boy, glancing from one 
face to the other. “ I knew it would be.” And then he 
fell into silence, almost awed by the spell which wrapped 
these two objects of his admiration, of his almost adora- 
tion. 

When they reached the house, with the lingering steps 
of day still burning in the western sky, Edith conducted 
her lover at once to her own domain on the ground-floor 
of the west wing, never before entered by him. The 
glow of the west still lay warm on its windows, and lit up 
the interior with a rosy twilight. She felt that these first 
moments should be sacred to their hearts. 

“ Philip,” turning to him, “ don’t think me lightly won. 
If I have ever seemed cold or indifferent, I may have 
feared my heart had gone to one who did not seek it.” 
“Edith!” 

“Nay, dearest, let me have my say now. I will 
never chide you. No plaint shall you ever hear from me 
again. Let this unrest of my heart be told you. No one 
has ever conferred greater benefits on another than -have 
you so unselfishly on me, — a father’s life, a brother’s 
more than life. -That you could think these had not won 
my whole heart, that you should turn away from me in 
blindness and darkness, and be so unhappy, was as cruel 
to me as to you. That you could think I had neither eyes 
nor heart; that I could have a thought of another — O 
Philip ! ” 

The retui-n from the sugar-camp was known to the 


374 


EDITH GROVER. 


whole household, and more than one knew that Edith had 
taken the doctor to her own drawing-room. Walter 
stopped and stood in open-mouthed wonder on the veran- 
da, exclaiming to his approaching mother, — 

“Well, mamma, I wonder what will happen next with 
Philip and Edith. She has just taken him into her own 
room.’" 

“ Who? Philip? Where did you meet him? ” eagerly. 

‘ ‘ Why, he came to us at the sugar-house, and they two 
were shut up there more than an hour.” 

“Hush, Walter! don’t speak so loud,” she said, com- 
ing close to him. “ Tell me all about it.” 

“ Well, you see,” said the boy, without much abate- 
ment of voice, “ when he came toward us, Edith up and 
said he didn’t like her, and ran into the house again ; and, 
when he got in where she was, I told him what she said ; 
and he was excited, and said she knew he would die for 
her. I can’t tell what happened next. I was scared, and 
Edith sent me out, and shut the door ; and I was glad she 
did, for I got into the all-firedest big flock of pigeons ” — 
“Never mind the pigeons now, Walter. I want to 
know about Edith and Philip. What did you next see of 
them ? ’ ’ 

“Well, I had one bully shot anyway ” — 

“Don’t say that word. You went back to the sugar- 
house, and what did you see, Wallie dear? ” coaxingly. 

“ I picked up seven pigeons, and the ” — 

“Yes, yes, yes ! The rest flew away. Well? ” 

“ Well, when I got back, I slung in the pigeons, and 
there stood the doctor, right where I left him, very pale, 
and looked as though he had been crying ; and a little from 
him stood Edith, with tears all over her face, with her 
cheeks as red, and when I spoke to her she threw her 
arms around me, and hugged me, and kissed me. Well, 


DR. FIELD GOES INTO THE SUGAR-ROOM. 375 


then came Ward, and asked the doctor in to eat sugar; 
and then came the Gardner girls ; and when they went 
away we came home, and all they said — I asked Edith 
— No, when I got back to the sugar-house, the doctor 
said he had been a-scolding Edith for what she said that 
I told him on. And she said — Well, when we was 
a-coming home, I asked Edith if it was all right, and she 
told me to ask the doctor ; and the doctor said it was. 
And it is, there \” 

‘ ‘ My blessed W alter ! ’ ’ said his mother, kissing him 
with unction. “I am sure it is all right. And now let us 
go in and see papa.” 

‘‘Wal, if that ain’t the beatinist-all-thing that ever I 
see a gal do in all my born days, anyway! ” exclaimed 
Ingles, raising her two hands in amazement, when Edith’s 
disposition of the doctor was reported to her, as it was a 
minute after it occurred. “She’s jes’ been an’ gone, 
an’ took Dr. Fields right smack inter her own room. 
Hain’t I got a rig on the doctor now, though? An’ him 
as bashful about it as a yearlin’. He was afcerd on ’er, 
an’ all the time jes’ ready to drop down dead for ’er. If 
I’d a ben ’im, I’d a jes’ gone an’ took an’ kist ’er right 
afore ’er mar ; an’ she jes’ a pinin’ for ’im all the time ! 
Never was two sech high fools. It was for all the world 
like one o’ them novils, only I thought there’ d never be 
no come out to ’t. I’d like to know how this got started, 
I would. Wal,, there never was sech a two pardners. 
Won’t there be a wedin’, though? My sakes alive I 
But this takin’ ’im inter ’er room beats me, that does. 
Ain’t I glad, though? Lord I thinks I, my young doctor, 
I could put a thing or two inter yer years. She knows 
what is what, if ever a gal did. Severton ! Fiddlesticks ! 
Wal, wal, wal! what a splendid couple they’ll make, 
though ! Wal, wal ! ” 


376 


EDITH GEOVEE. 


An hour later, and the lovers entered the room where 
the expectant parents, with Walter, awaited their ap- 
proach. As they came forward, with their faces almost 
transfigured, the father and mother arose and went to 
meet them. Edith was the first to speak, — 

‘ ‘ Father, ’ ’ with exquisite 7iaivete, ‘ ‘ here is a young 
man who wants to become your son-in-law.” She turned, 
and sprang into the arms of her mother. “We are all 
so happy, so blessed now ! ’ ’ 

“To think that we owe this to Walter, after all, 
Philip,” said Edith. “How glad I am that his word 
brought it about! — You blessed boy, come and let me 
kiss you again,” she said to the happy child. 

“He kissed me before he did you,” he said, pouting 
his lips. “Philip, why didn’t you kiss Edith when you 
did me? — You wanted him to, didn’t you, Edith? ” 

“ Oh, you blessed Walter ! you are not quite right yet ; 
and Philip will have to take this naughty head of yours in 
.hand again, I fear,” said the happy girl playfully. 

“I guess he’ll have his hands full now, without that,” 
said the half-comprehending child. 

When they went to the belated supper- table, they en- 
countered the privileged Ingles, who called out, — 

“ What did I tell ye. Dr. Fields, way long back, when 
yer first come here ? ’ ’ 

“ Well, something about docterin’ cows, and luggin’ 
’bout babies an’ gals,” said the young man, mimicking 
her voice and speech effectively. 

“ O docter, that ain’t fair I I ast yer parding for that, 
an’ ye forgive me. It wa’n’t that. But that mornin’, ye 
know, when Edith here was a-comin’ down the hall behind 
yer — don’t ye remember? ” 

Field looked a little grave, and remained silent. 

“ What was it, Ingles? ” asked the laughing Edith. 


DR. FIELD GOES INTO THE SUGAR-ROOM. 377 

“Wal, I’d said to the docter, says I to ’im, says I, 
‘Why don’t you have a wife?’ An’ says ’e to me, says 
’e, ‘ Who’d be my wife?’ Says I to ’im, says I, ‘Look 
behind yer,’ ” laughing heartily. “ Lord ! I know’d how 
’twould be.” 

“You dear old Ingles,” said Edith, laughing and blush- 
ing, “ what did he say? ” 

“ You see, you’s then close by, and I jumped and run.” 

“I knew your step,” said the young man, “ and did 
not dare look round.” * 

What a blessed spring-time of love and sunshine, of 
revelation and communion, were the following days ! 


The day came, and many guests. 

Rev. Mr. Humphrey officiated. 

The bride and groom were congratulated. 

The supper was eaten, and the guests departed. 

At a later hour, as they entered the sanctuary of the 
bridal chamber, Edith, turned, and laid her hand on the 
arm of her wedded lover. 

“Do you remember what day this is, Philip?” she 
asked archly. 

“ Well, love, I am nearly past remembering any thing ; 
but I think it is our wedding-day,” as if in doubt. 

“Do you remember, Philip, once — oh, a great while 
ago ! ^ of riding in a stage-coach on a rainy afternoon, 
with a young lady whom you had never seen before ? ’ ’ 

A pause, in which Philip opened his eyes in a kind of 
soft wonder. 

“ That was just one year ago to-day,” with a little tre- 
mor in her voice. 

“Hereafter, whenever you think of that ride, you will 
remember this day also ; won’t you, Philip dearest? ” 


378 


EDITH GBOYEK. 


And her head went down on his shoulder with a little 
half sob. 

“ I shall forever bless that ride in the stage, dearest.’’* 
And he infolded her with his arms. 


MONSON. 


CHAPTER I. 

UNCLE TOM. 

Some very pleasant recollections and associations clus- 
ter around the name of Monson. 

They say I was born in Monson, amid the Massachu- 
setts hills ; and away to the north of my mother’s Ohio 
cabin were the Monson woods, named for that older Mon- 
son. Interminable they seemed to my childish imagina- 
tion, stretching unbrokenly north. Two or three times 
after the Coes moved into the northern part of Newbury, 
I had been across the intervening woods, north-westerly, 
along the Bosworth road, past the Bosworth clearing, and 
taken the Coe path to Coe’s, who had a fulling-mill on 
'Coe’s Creek, a beautiful woodland stream, which ran away 
to the unknown north-west, through Monson and Russell, 
to far-off Chagrin River, more remote and legendary then 
than is now the Red River of the North. 

1 had several times been down this creek with the 
young Coes, John, Jerry, and Orville, spearing suckers in 
the warm April days. Miles I had followed its widening, 
deepening channel, but never came to a house, or sound of 
woodman’s axe, or sign of man. I knew that away some- 

379 


380 


MONSON. 


where in the middle of the forest lived the Hoveys ; and 
can remember that a white-haired old man in silk small- 
clothes and shoe-buckles, and a bent, snowy old woman 
in rich black silks, with narrow skirt falling straight from 
a waist up under the arms, — Down-East magnates of 
an olden time, large proprietors of rich Monson lands, — 
were once at our house ; and Asahel Davis from beautiful 
Maple Hill, and the Stoddards, used to come over to our 
militia trainings ; and I had heard of the Hazens. 

Once, too, upon a time, I ran away from Chardon, 
across intervening Monson, home to my mother, when I 
was nine years old. One warm July morning, with a little 
bundle, I ran off south down Chardon Hill on the old 
State road, and struck the woods by the old Bailey place, 
and traversed alone the six miles of unbroken forest, over 
hills, through valleys, across streams and swamp-lands, 
till I reached Judge Stone’s at North Newbury, meeting 
crazy Halsey Spencer in mid-forest, — a stalwart, robust 
figure, hatless, barefoot, and half nude, sunburned and 
haggard, with frenzy in his eyes, — driven mad by the 
treachery or cruelty of the woman he loved. He had 
then escaped from confinement. What a sad tragedy was 
his whole life, raving mad, and only restored by death, 
which delayed its approach till the generations of men 
forgot him ! I saw him coming, and hid in a thicket of 
young maples till he passed me. 

Monson remained a wilderness, with but few inhabit- 
ants, till all the other townships, even Russell, were well 
peopled and improved, and the few settlers in it were 
much isolated, and had a reputation for rude ways and 
customs of their own. I remember very well, when 1 
comi'jienced the practice of law at Chardon in 1841 , we 
had a way of saying that such a young lady’s dress was 
Monsoney. “ He looks as if he came from Monson.” — 


UNCLE TOM. 


381 


“ You must have got that coat in Monson.” — “ That hat 
was cut off from the butt end of a woodchuck’s hole in 
Monson.” A riot, a tin-horning of a newly married pair 
on their wedding-night, was Monson style. 

My residence in Chardon Village, near the north-eastern 
corner of Monson, brought me much better acquainted 
with its inhabitants. Her townshij^ had at that time 
pretty well filled up ; and although there were many intelli- 
gent, well-to-do families within its borders, attracted by 
the unusual fertility of the soil, still the primitive type of 
rather rude manners prevailed, and there were within its 
precincts a hard set, — some women not so good as they 
should be, and some young men improved by being sent 
to the penitentiary. It was isolated, and long known as 
the “ State of Monson.” It was a great place for petty 
lawsuits ; and many were my sharp contests, before 
Esquire Fowler, Esquire Allen, and old Esquire Harris, 
who had a cure of soles as well, and often heard us from 
the bench, where he judiciously heeled a shoe, and judi- 
cially healed a breach of the peace at the same time. Oh, 
what desperate contests I used to have before these worth- 
ies with my rival O. P. Brown, who was an immense 
favorite there ! It was the only Democratic township in 
the county, and O. P. and myself had been opposing 
candidates for prosecuting attorney in the great cam- 
paign of 1840. From the day we met in a field-fight at 
Troy m l^ie canvass, to the day of his death, years ago, 
we were bosom friends. All Monson used to come out to 
hear us in these legal and illegal contests. 

It was during some of the earlier of these judicial ex- 
clusions that I first met Tom Hazen, whom I occasionally 
encountered in the Monson forums. He was a striking 
character, one of the first settlers in the woods, coming 
from the borders of New England and Canada. Of rough, 


382 


MONSON. 


gigantic mould, tall, broad, heavy-shouldered, and brawny- 
limbed, no one knew the measure of his strength, and 
capacity to endure. He had a big head ; high, narrow 
forehead ; shaggy brows over deep-set, small, twinkling, 
good-natured blue eyes ; a nose that had been ‘ ‘ bulled ’ ’ 
early, and never lost its “upward tendency;” broad 
mouth, around which a smile usually played. Roughly 
and scantily clothed was he, even in winter. He was a 
man to be everywhere marked. His education was of the 
border, which at the time of his graduation did not em- 
brace a character of the English alphabet in its curriculum. 
He afterwards mastered so much of literatm*e as to be able 
to read, and could write what his acquaintances came to 
know as his signature. He was, dui'ing the early annals 
of Monson, a sort of king, ruling by divine right of the 
strongest, not by virtue of his great physical power, though 
marked and arbitrary as was his will. A natural-born 
diplomatist, and master of finesse, he was one of the soft- 
est spoken of men, and had trained a voice of the greatest 
power to the lowest and sweetest accents. Always bland, 
always smiling, graceful and courteous in manners, never 
off his guard and never losing temper, with quick per- 
ceptions, acute and great strength of mind, in a differ- 
ent field adequate culture would have made him ruler of 
a great State rather than the rude and ragged lord of the 
barony of Monson. There was a large group of stalwart 
sons, seven or eight, about him, who partook of his physi- 
cal qualities ; but while some of them showed fair capa- 
city, none of them inherited the intellectual qualities of 
their father. Too illiterate to fill any office under the 
laws of the State at large, he was law-maker, governor, 
and judge, outside of the statutes, in his primitive neigh- 
borhood, and ruled with natural equity and moderation. 
In his own affairs thrifty and long-headed, .oily, suave, 


UNCLE TOM. 


383 


and politic, he was apt to have the best of it, and men 
much preferred to secure his intervention in their alfairs 
with others than to have transactions with him on his own 
account. lie was past the golden day of rule in Monson, 
and that had ceased to be an independent State, ere my 
acquaintance with him ; but he often appeared before the 
justices in small cases constantly arising among his for- 
mer subjects, where he was a dangerous opponent. His 
tower of strength, refuge, and sanctuary was his complete 
illiterateness, and utter ignorance of the law. This, which 
would be fatal to a common man^ was by him played with 
a skill and ingenuity that rose to an art. Always defer- 
ential, and obsequiously respectful to an opponent, he 
often excited the surprise of the spectators, that with all 
his learning, skill, and eloquence, his antagonist should 
have made so poor a showing, arguing that it must be 
from the utter poverty of his case ; while his own, with all 
his ignorance and weakness, and notwithstanding the con- 
sequent injury he^did, was, as all could see, so strong, 
clear, and just. He was shrewd in preparing witnesses, 
and, though not very fluent, ingenious, and one of the 
most persuasive of men in the presentation of his case ; 
and we often had to take to the Common Pleas contempt- 
ible cases where he had persuaded the justices to disre- 
gard the commonest rules of law and right. 

He carried on an extensive ashery, was well known to 
business men in Cleveland and Painesville, wliere he went 
in his scant, well-worn homespun, and often astonished 
the leaders in trade, as much by the grace with which he 
would lift his fragment of a hat, and bow to a lady, as by 
the shrewdness and sagacity of his remarks, made in the 
most vicious of language. 

I remember a little story of Monson, with which Uncle 
Tom Hazen was somewhat mixed, and to which I am 
pleased to call the foregoing an introduction. 


384 


MONSON. 


CHAPTER II. 

ELSIE AND JOHN. 

Among the later-comers into the State was Jim Trask, 
with his family. He was about thirty years of age, a 
good-natured, easy-going man, with the reputation of 
having a rich father in York State, who purchased for 
him a fine, partly improved farm, and helped him build a 
'good farm-house, stock his farm, and put him well a-going. 
His wife was a person of another sort, — ambitious, thrifty, 
intelligent, good-looking, and tasteful, as was shown by 
her neatly fenced and well-kept yard, planted out with 
shrubs and flowers, her well- arranged house, and tidily 
dressed children. She had a fine person and pleasant 
manners, and was soon regarded as a leading woman : 
while Jim kept a hired man, a pair of horses and light 
wagon, and had a good deal of driving up to Chardon, 
and permitted his farm- work to drive him ; or it would, had 
not his wife taken that useful oflfice upon herself. Jim 
was A good friend of mine. He aided me to collect an 
old note-of-hand of the incorrigible John Kelley, by buy- 
ing Kelley’s horses, and giving him a negotiable note for 
them, which he did not pay ; and when sued on it he set 
off Kelley’s own negotiable note, which I had transferred 
to him in advance, against his own note, — a species of 
legal legerdemain on my part which won for me the re- 
spect and awe of Monson generally. Even Uncle Tom 
transferred his favor to me on the strength of it. It was 
a method after his own heart. 


ELSIE AND JOHN. 


385 


• In the family of the Trasks lived Elspieth Wilson, a 
young orphan-gh’l of some seventeen at the time of the 
occurrences I am to relate. Her mother, a widow, lived 
^in the neighborhood when the Trasks came into JMonson, 

. — a feeble, helpless creature of better days and other for- 
tunes, stranded there, and left to perish, and who had re- 
ceived much kindness at the hands of Mrs. Trask, who, 
at her death some two years before, promised the dying 
mother to receive Elsie, as she was called, into her own 
house, and care for her. This she did quite faithfully. 
It was the day of close living, hard work, plain and scant 
dressing, even for sons and daughters ; and Mrs. Trask 
had been educated in its economies. She came from 
another community, where there was a marked difference 
between the children of the mistress and the hired girl, 
and the Trasks were on a higher plane than the widow. 
Elsie, of course, must work for her living, and at some 
time would become the wife of some young, hard-working 
farmer ; and it was the best thing for her that she should 
grow up with habits of industry, thrift, and economy, and 
with views and notions not above her level. AYhile in a 
certain sense she was an equal, it was an equality which 
easily admitted of a difference, which Mrs'. Trask did not 
intend the young girl should lose sight of. Elsie, however, 
was one of those endowed persons who may not be quite 
amenable to ordinary rules. Her mother was a woman of 
some cultiu-e ; and the young girl, an only child,^ intelligent 
beyond her years, was quite superior to the average mature 
woman of her neighborhood. Nature had given her a per- 
son which at fourteen was very attractive, and promised 
quite rare beauty at maturity, which with her would 
occur early in her life. Her form, of ordinary height, 
round for her years, a sprightly face, with a carnation 
and white complexion, wide gray eyes, line brow, and 


386 


MONSON. 


golden-brown hair, sweet-tempered, docile, healthy, and 
strong, with a temper that nothing could ruffle, and 
spirits which nothing could cloud — such was Elsie. She 
became the faithful maid-of-all-work, and as near a 
drudge as Mrs. Trask’s sense of justice would permit. 
She had also an aptitude for dress, and with the scantiest 
means always managed to array herself, on the few occa- 
sions permitted to her, with a taste and skill, which, 
joined with her modesty and a certain natural air of 
elegance and grace, marked her for a lady born, whatever 
fortune might await her. As she grew up and developed, 
Mrs. Trask came to regard her with a sort of half- jeal- 
ousy, a good deal of respect, some secret admiration, and 
much unspoken liking. The children worshipped her. 
With the neighbors she was a favorite, and Mrs. Trask 
was seriously afraid that James would spoil her. Good, 
kind, easy soul, he could see no difference, and was con- 
stantly forgetting it in his treatment of her, and was 
doing things for her as if she were one of them, and would 
take her with them as one of the family, of whom he was 
proud and fond ; and his wife had all she could do, in 
her shrewd woman’s way, to keep the distinctions in sight. 
As for Elspieth, poor thing, she had no expectations, or 
seemingly no wisli in life, but to do faithfully and devot- 
edly whatever came to her hands. She had her mother’s 
Bible, and a few things of hers, mementos of happier 
days, of which the child had only heard her mother S])eak. 
Everybody about her worked hard and lived poorly, but 
what of it? The world was very beautiful, God and the 
Saviour were ever at hand to those who sought them, and 
her life was full of sunshine. She loved James, jun., 
she loved little Ann, and quite worahipped the baby. She 
loved and respected her mistress, and was quite fond of 
Mr. Trask, good soul, vdio was kind to her. 


ELSIE Amy JOHN. 


387 


When the Elder Trask planted Jim in Monson, he also 
bought about two hundred acres of superior land on the 
creek which flowed from Monson Pond, a beautiful little 
lake within two miles of Chardon. The bottoms of this 
lovely stream were of great fertility. There was a small 
improvement on the premises, and under Jim’s direction 
quite an extensive new clearing was made and a farm 
barn built. This was intended as a farm for John Trask, 
jun., the youngest of the family, about whom a great deal 
was said by Jim, his wife, and a married sister who lived 
in Chardon. As the youngest, he was the favorite, was 
given or took superior advantages of education, supplied 
with a freer hand, and was much more indulged than Jim 
or any of the rest had been. 

Finally it began to be rumored that John was coming 
on to take possession of his farm, and establish himself 
in life ; and fm*tively it was talked over in the private 
Trask circle that John had become a little wild, was in- 
clined to be fast, and on' the whole would be sent off to 
the Monson woods a little earlier than was intended, for 
his reformation, or at least to escape threatened peril. 

He came in the fall, brought a fine horse and a fancy 
Eastern-made buggy, then much prized in Ohio. He 
was about twenty-three, tallish, slender, well-made, hand- 
some, with splendid black eyes and hair, well dressed, 
frank and free spoken, and quite noticeable anywhere ; 
in Monson a sensation. Jim and his wife and sister 
were very proud of him, introduced him about, and he 
was made much of. After visiting and driving round a 
few days, he went about work on his farm, hired men to 
chop, cut saw-logs, build fences, and took hold with a 
good deal of apparent vigor. His brother’s house was 
nearer to his farm than his sister’s, was more roomy; 
and, while he boarded with a family who lived on his place, 


388 


MONSON. 


he made his headquarters at Jim’s, kept his clothes there, 
and always went there on Sundays. 

There was a hard set of young men about Monson at 
that time, who did not limit themselves merely to drinking 
and an occasional fight : their lawlessness ran in other 
channels. Dick Miller, Eph Corning, one of the young 
Davises, all of whom had been away and picked up other 
notions of vice, who were a little beyond ‘the Monson style 
of dress, managed to have horses and money. Dick espe- 
cially was a handsome, dashing, profligate scamp, with a 
coarse wit, and supposed to be very dangerous to young 
girls, and whose pursuits and inclinations ran in feminine 
channels. Then there were half a dozen lesser lights in 
the same constellation. There were also several women, 
— the Cooley girls down by Butternut Creek, Nance Kel- 
ley, and two or three more of that kind of doubtful char- 
acter which leaves no doubt at all. 

Kelley, who lived a little out of the way, kept as vile a 
little whiskey and other hole as there existed, — a sort of 
rendezvous for various purposes. The young men referred 
to occasionally came up to the village of Chardon, often er 
resorted to Cowles’s tavern, a new house at North New- 
bury, infested Fowler’s mills, and made several neighbor- 
hoods lively, and a good many nights hideous. There was 
a criminal element among them ; but when we sent Jim 
Blair, Briggs Hawley, and Groshong to the penitentiary, 
it relieved that region of serious depredations upon prop 
erty. 

These vagabonds took a great fancy to young John 
Trask ; and Dick, in an especial way, paid court to him. 
John lived by himself, knew nothing of Miller, except that 
he was a dashing, handsome fellow some years older than 
himself, with that sort of manner and experience rather 
fascinating to a youth of twenty-three, who feels the stir of 


ELSIE 'AND JOHN. 


389 


his own pnlse. Dick had a way of throwing himself into 
John’s company, asked him to ride, managed to ride with 
John, told him of his gallantries and adventures, offered 
to take him to Cooley’s, and did take him to Kelley’s. 
Kelley was a character, belonged to a good family in Ver- 
mont, where he swindled a man, and, having run out East, 
he was obliged to run out West, and Mouson, a miniature 
Texas of that day, took him. 

“So you are ’Jim Trask’s brother?” Kelley said to. 
John, looking him coolly over. “ Well, as the fashion of 
dinners is, the old man saved the best to the last.” 

“ You see,” said Dick, “ he don’t like Jim. His doin’ 
’im out of them bosses sticks in ’is crop.” 

“I don’t owe Jim no grudge. He did it as sliek as 
greased ile. You see, Jim Trask’s note is as good as the 
Western Reserve, Bank ; while John Kelley’s — well, not 
above par — he suspended specie payments long ago. No 
redeemer liveth for his paper. Wal, you see, Jim man- 
aged to swap my note for his’n, and git a d — d fine span 
of bosses to boot. I don’t mind the paper, there’s plen- 
ty on it ; but the bosses — I’m blowed if I ever did quite 
see through it.” 

“ Ah ! the feller that did Jim Blair did the business,” 
said Miller. 

“Of course your brother Jim is an infernal lunk-head 
an3"way. I don’t owe him no grudge. But that feller on 
the hill — cuss me ! if I ever have any thing agin. I’ll get 
even with him.” 

Kelley’s career as a hotel-keeper was short. The grand 
jury indicted him again, and the traverse jury convicted 
him. It was before the Democratic associate judges, 
Wright, Bosley, and Brackett, who remorselessly sentenced 
his hole to be closed, and him to jail. Kelley, in revenge, 
told the Court that “ it was a Demerara team anyway. ’i 


390 


MONSON. 


“What is a Demerara team?’’ demanded Judge 
Wright, who presided. 

“A jackass with a mule on each side o’ him, your 
Honor,” when, amid shouts of laughter, John was taken 
below. 

More than once Dick, in young Trask’s company, had 
made allusion to Elsie Wilson, — at first slyly, and then 
more openly, winding up, “ She’s one on ’em,” when the 
other chaps would laugh. It annoyed John, but he kept 
silent. 


HOW JOHN MISBEHAVED. 


391 


CHAPTER III. 

HOW JOHN - MISBEHAVED, 

It was not in nature for a young man to see Elsie with- 
out being moved, or .meet her often without becoming in- 
terested in her. To John she became the most beautiful 
girl he had ever seen. She was sweeter than she was 
beautiful, and seemed more good than sweet. From 
morniug to night, bright, cheerful, and light-hearted, sing- 
ing, laughing, or talkuig, though she was not a great 
talker, faithful, modest, and sensible, Jim’s wife feared 
how it might be. She could see that Jolm was much 
smitten, and she was concerned. It would never do. He 
a Trask, and she a little nobody. Why need she be so beau- 
tiful and good, or why couldn’t she have been somebody’s 
child? Was John her own brother? Well, if Elsie was 
of a family like the Trasks, or even her own, she never 
saw a girl she would choose so soon for him. The fact 
was, it had been thought that her own family were not 
much ; and she knew that nothing but her personal merit 
made her acceptable, and now to permit John, in her 
house, to go a step lower for no matter what miracle of 
beauty and goodness, would never do. What could she do ? 
She knew there would be no use in speaking to John about 
it, nor of avail to send Elsie away. She could not spare 
her, and sending her off would do no good now. She 
could not even pray that God would so rule as that this 
thing should not happen, for she thought it was just the 
thing he would do : indeed, were she the disposer, she 


392 


MONSON. 


would have so arranged that it would be the thing ; and 
she had no idea he would interpose to prevent it any- 
way. She watched Elsie very closely when John was 
there, .which was very often. Nothing could be more cir- 
cumspect and proper than was her conduct. So far as she 
could see, the gud was utterly indifferent, so much so, that 
she wondered, was a little piqued at it. She, a little 
nobody, seventeen years old, there in the woods, who had 
never seen anybody, not to be struck by this handsome 
young man, so well dressed and gentlemanly ! There was 
no use in saying a word to Jim, easy, good soul : it would 
just suit him. One thing she could do, — she could, in a 
certain way, put Elsie on her guard, little as she seemed 
to need it. 

“I expect,'' she said to the girl one day, “ that John 
will be going back for a wife some time." 

“When?" looking up with a bright, interested ex- 
pression. 

“Well, next summer, perhaps." 

“ Oh, that will be so nice ! And will he bring his wife 
here? He will at first, won't he? " 

“ Of course, till he builds a house." 

“I should so like to see her. She must be a real 
lady." 

‘ ‘ What makes you think so ? " 

“ Why, he wouldn't have anybody but a lady. Do you 
know her ? ' ' 

“Yes — no — that is, I don't exactly know as I do." 

“ Is she very beautiful and educated? " 

“ Oh ! I s'pose so. You see, he don't say much about 
it to me, and you need not tell him I told you about it." 

“ You don't suppose I’d be likely to, do you? ” 

Sweet innocence ! 

“ WeU, I don’t know." 


HOW JOHN MISBEHAVED. 


393 


On the whole, Mrs. Trask did not know whether to be 
'pleased or annoyed at the result of this giving Elsie no- 
tice. Perhaps she was a little of both. Time ran on 
into the winter. John ran about with Miller a good deal, 
and was bantered about Elsie by him, and came rather to 
like it ; and his visits to his brother’s were, if any thing, 
more numerous, and Mrs. Trask fancied that his manner 
toward Elsie had changed slightly. He had a way of 
looking at her which she did not like. She could not tell 
what it was, nor why she did not like it ; and she increased 
her vigilance when he was there, which was hardly neces- 
sary. 

The two were never for a moment really alone. It is 
true John came home with Elsie once from a spelling- 
school, but James was with them; and he brought her 
home from the day-school two or three times, but the two 
oldest children were with them ; and once he had walked 
home with her alone from an evening visiting, that is, 
they came along right behind Jim and his wife. 

Something happened between them, however, along late 
in the winter, which Mrs. Trask never did get to know the 
exact truth -of; but it occasioned her much anxiety, and 
gave sweet Elsie one of her first lessons in the study of 
men. John came along just at evening, one afternoon, 
with his sleigh, to carry Jim’s wife to Chardon to buy 
some much-needed thing which could not be had at Har- 
per’s store. When he came, she was suffering horrors 
from a nervous headache, and could not go, and sent 
Elsie, who was quite willing to do the errand ; and in a 
few minutes, cosily wrapped in warm buffaloes, close by 
John’s side, she was fiashing on her way to town. Fences, 
houses, cabins, hovels, trees, ran back past them, and she 
was in a little ecstasy all the too short way. Her purchase 
was soon made, but John lingered a little ; and when they 


394 


MONSON. 


went home, instead of driving directly back, he took a 
roundabout way of seven or eight miles, and it got to be 
quite dark and a little late. Elsie was ' concerned, and 
once or twice gently expressed her fear that Mrs. Trask 
would be anxious and displeased, at which John only 
laughed, and seemed not in the least hurry. At length, 
while rising a hill, the young man placed his left arm 
around her and tried to draw her toward him. At first 
the innocent child supposed it was merely to adjust the 
wraps. When the real purpose fiashed upon her, she re- 
moved the intruding arm decidedly. It was returned 
more unequivocally. 

“Mr. Trask!” throwing his arm from her, and turn- 
ing upon him with a fiash. 

“ Oh, — ha, ha, ha ! why, how squeamish you are ! All 
girls permit that. ’ ’ 

“ I am not all girls — nor one of them.” 

“Will you not, though ?” throwing his arm about her 
an instant by main force. 

“ There, we will see,” he said, liberating her. 

“We will,” she said, springing from the sleigh the 
instant she was released, and fleeing along the hard snow- 
track in advance of the horse. 

“Elsie, Elsie! for God’s sake stop! Elsie, hear me! 
do, I implore you ! ” 

She did not stop, however, when, leaping from the 
sleigh and leaving his horse, the frightened, punished 
youth ran after, passed, and turned and confronted her. 

“ Miss Wilson, for God’s sake don’t crush me. I was 
to blame — most infernally to blame. You must stop, and 
get back into the sleigh.” 

“ I will not. By your strength you may stop me here, 
if you are unmanly enough to use it on me. Go with 
Dick Miller to the Cooley girls. That is the place for 
you,” with flashing scorn. 


HOW JOHN MISBEHAVED. 


395 


“Elsie, I implore, I entreat, have ^ome mercy on a 
thoughtless, rude feller. If you knew what I really in my 
heart and soul think of you ’ ’ — 

“ I don’t care. Let me pass.” 

“Yes, if you will have no mercy, walk home. Tell 
Jim’s wife. Let us be met, with you walking alone, and 
let me be disgraced. I deserve it. I am a fool, but I am 
no worse. Do you wish to punish me more, — to humiliate 
me worse? Don’t think me a villain. You will get in 
and let me take you home ? I am a brute, and it was un- 
manly to use my strength as I did. I did not then th ink 
it a crime.” A silence. “Say that you will get into the 
sleigh and ride home ? What would anybody think who 
should come along and see us here? ” 

The horse had walked along up till he came to where 
they were standing, and stopped. John took him by the 
bit, turned him one side, and led him along till the sleigh 
stood by the silent girl’s side. lie offered his hand to 
help her in, but without noticing it she stepped into the 
sleigh and sat down. He sprang into his place by her 
side, and attempted to replace the wraps over her, which 
she refused to receive. 

“May I do nothing for you. Miss Wilson?” in the 
most respectful way. 

“Yes.” 

“What?” 

“ Drive me home at once,’^ imperiously. • 

“Is that all?” 

^‘No.” 

“What else?” 

“ Never speak to me again.” 

Gathering up the reins, the horse was permitted to go 
off at his best gait ; and five minutes later, as Elsie was 
about to step from the sleigh,- John spoke the first word 
uttered by either since they entered the sleigh. 


396 


MONSON. 


“ Miss Wilson, do you intend to tell Jim’s wife of what 
I did?” 

“ Can a girl tell of such a thing, think you? ” and with 
her parcel she went in without another word. She laid her 
package on the table in the sitting-room, where Mrs. 
Trask, now quite recovered, was sitting with her children, 
and harried up stairs to her little cold, dark room, shut 
herself in, alone, never in her life feeling so utterly deso- 
late, and threw herself down on her hard bed, and broke 
into sobs. 

As she laid down her package, her mistress had only 
time to say, “Why, Elsie, what has happened?” While 
she was still in suspense, John came in. His face bore 
signs of emotion quite as apparent as those which marked 
the features of the girl. 

“ Well, John, where have you been, and what has hap- 
pened? ” 

‘ ‘ As to where we have been, I thought I would give 
Elsie a little ride around by North Newbury.” 

“ You did not stop there? ” 

v“ No. And as to what happened — I’ve been playing 
the biggest kind of d d fool ! ” 

“Don’t swear, John.” 

“ Nothing' else fits it,” gloomily. - 

“ With Elsie? ” 

“With Elsie.” 

“ John, if you dare to trifle with the heart of that young 
girl”— 

“Trifle! Hum! She’d be more likely to trifle with 
mine.” 

“ What do you mean? — and she my girl, my hired girl, 
one of my own family, in fact.” 

“Oh! I was punished as man never was for such an 
offence. I did not think it was much.” 


HOW JOHN MISBEHAVED. 


397 


‘ ‘ What was it ? ” 

And he told her with a straight-forward candor beautiful 
to see. 

“ I never can understand a man, John,” she said sadly. 

“ Well, I’ll have to work my time out, I suppose,” was 
his disconsolate reflection. 

‘ ‘ What did she do 2 ” 

“Sprang out o’ the sleigh quicker’n lightning ; and I 
had to go down on my knees, almost, before she would 
get in again.” 

‘ ‘ It would have served you right if she had walked 
home. You would have looked pretty ; she walking, and 
you tagging on after her, and your horse on after you — 
ha, ha, ha ! You, John Trask, junior, I’m ashamed of 
you.” 

“ So am I,” gloomily. 

“ The poor child ! Her face was as white as if it had 
been frozen ; and she never said a word ! ’ ’ 

“ Can I see her? ” humbly. 

“ No, you cah’t : she sha’n’t be disturbed to-night.” 

“All right. Good-night,” and he strode away. He 
could not disabuse his mind or senses of the impression 
made on them by Dick Miller. He could not think illy of 
Elsie. He had not what are called designs against her. 
Perhaps he wanted to approach her, try and see. If that 
was his purpose, he certainly did see ; and he went away 
from his brother’s about as flatly humiliated a young man 
as one might wish to see. One or two things were quite 
ai'>parent to him now. He loved her beyond doubt or cavil. 
He had probably lost any chance he might ever have had 
of winning her. She despised him, woifld hate him, and 
tliat was the end of it. 

After he went out, Mrs. Trask arose, and with a candle 
sought Elsie in her room. The giil was weeping quietly, 


398 


MONSON. 


with her face buried in the bed-clothes. The kind-hearted 
woman placed her candle on the small stand, sat down on 
the bed, passed her arm over the prone form, and whis- 
pered soothing words in Elsie’s ear. Gradually she 
ceased to weep, raised her head, and turned to the kind 
face bent over her, when her eyes' met those of her mis- 
tress. “He has told,” she cried, covering her face with 
her hands. 

“Don’t mind it, dear. You were not a bit to blame, 
and behaved like a true-hearted girl. Men are so queer. 
They don’t think of these things as we do.” 

“ What must any man think of a gild ” — 

“Oh! they don’t think at all. They are coarse and 
rude. I don’t excuse him at all, and he don’t excuse 
himself, and it was a good lesson to him. There, don’t 
think of it ; get up and come down. I have saved some 
supper for you. You are cold. He has gone. You won’t 
see him to-night. Of course he will come here, for this 
is his home, you know.” 

“ Yes, I am only a hired girl. You can easily find an- 
other. My staying or going cannot signify ^to — any of 
your friends.” 

“ Don’t talk so. You will feel better to-morrow ; ” and 
the young girl followed her mistress down to the warm, 
cheerful rooms below, drank a cup of tea, warmed her- 
self, and went to bed exhausted and wretched. 


CORNSTALK MOLASSES. 


399 


CHAPTER IV. 

CORNSTALK MOLASSES. 

As time elapsed John grew more dissatisfied with him- 
self and his relations to Elsie. In his honest soul it did 
not seem to him that his offence was very great ; but she 
had chosen to regard it so, and the consequences were as 
grave to him, almost, as if he had attempted her murder. 
Two days after the occurrence he called at his brother’s, 
and she did not make her appearance. He called the suc- 
ceeding day, with the same result. He drove around by 
the schoolhouse Just as the children left it for home, at 
evening, a day or two later, and took the little boy and 
girl into his cutter ; when Elsie announced that she was 
going home with a school-girl friend, and did. 

And then, boy like, he was angry, and swore to him- 
self he did not care, and repeated it, so as to assure him- 
self of the truth of that assertion, and went off and 
staid away a week, and then went again to Jim’s house 
and saw her, and she met him with the cool indifference 
of one to whom he was of no earthly consequence for 
good or ill. 

During these days he was an object of anxious obser- 
vation to Mrs. Trask. It becarne very apparent to her 
that he was deeply smitten, and she began to feel uneasy 
as to the result. She knew that boys had a score of 
fancies before they became deeply interested, and often 
thought they were over head and ears in love when they 
only had a fit of spleen or dyspepsia. But John was no 


400 


MONSON. 


dyspeptic. He was a robust, well-made, healthy young 
man, now past his twenty-fourth birthday, of quick per- 
ceptions, and knew pretty well what he, wanted, and 
had now for a month been moping about as silent and 
glum as a sinner under eonviction, as he was. Even Jim 
noticed it. 

“Why, what’s the matter with John, I wonder. He’s 
bluer’ n skimmed milk,” he said one day. 

“Oh, I don’t know! He is not behaving very well,” 
answered his wife. 

“ He’s broke with Dick Miller. I heard him cut ’im up 
sharp the other day,” Jim added. 

Mrs. Trask was not over well pleased with Elsie. What 
right had she to remain so permanently incensed, as if 
girls had never been squeezed before, or as if she was 
of better elay than others? True, she had feared the 
most of any thing that she would fall in love with her 
handsome brother-in-law, and felt that it was due to him 
that she should. She could see that he was first favorite 
with the rustic maidens of Monson. True, nothing could 
come of it but heartache for her, yet no girl ever secured 
her first love. It was a sort of scarlet fever whieh most 
young women had early, and it injured but few ; and, on 
the whole, she did not like it. 

John was not a man to give up a thing he had set his 
heart on, without a decided effort. He would certainly 
see this young woman, and have a serious talk with her, 
and was on the lookout for an opening. He must find her 
at home, alone, some Sunday, when the seniors were at 
church. But she either went with them, or they did not 
go. Finally they were invited to a little party at Squire 
Allen’s one evening, as was he : Elsie would be alone. 
He went there, and found her. It was quite early in the 
evening, though the children had gone to bed ; and the 


CORNSTALK MOLASSES. 


401 


young girl, who had grown quite thoughtful, was sitting 
with her head on her hand, feeling as if she had grown 
old, when a timid knock came at the door. It was like a 
girl’s, but they had no near neighbors. Elsie was not a 
timid girl, but bade the knocker come in, as was the cus- 
tom, instead of which came another tap. She went to the 
door, opened it, and there stood John Trask. 

“ Your brother and his wife are not at home.” 

‘ ‘ I know it. May I come in ? T came on purpose to 
see you.” 

He took off his hat, his voice was very sad-like, and 
there was an appealing, wistful look in his eyes. Elsie 
stood for an instant, and dropping her eyes turned and 
walked away a step or two, leaving the door open. “ This 
is your brother’s house, Mr. Trask ; I am only his hired 
girl: you can come or go without my leave,” she said 
coldly. 

“ You are the mistress to-night ; and it is to you I come, 
and, if you say I may not, I shall go,” he said from the 
outside. “ I want very much to talk with you. You said 
I was to avoid you : if you will let me say a few words to 
you, I will, if you still wish it. ' You are a woman now.” 

She set a chair for him, and sat down in another a little 
remote. He came in, closed the door and stepped toward 
her, paused, and hesitated. 

“ Will not you sit down, Mr. Trask? ” 

“I know I am not welcome,” he said, “and must not 
stay long, and that makes it so much harder to say what I 
wanted to ; and it was not easy anyway. I wanted to say 
something about what happened between us that night. 
Miss Wilson, I loved you then : I — I ” — 

“ I don’t want such love,” with spirit. 

“ I didn’t know there was but one kind.” 

“ Well, I think yours is like old Miss Rogers’s cornstalk 
molasses.” scornfully. 


402 


MONSON. 


“ Why do you say that? ” 

“ Because she said the less of it she used, the sweeter 
her things were. ’ ’ 

Well, Miss Wilson, I must say you know how to be 
rough on a feller ; and I could laugh at that sometimes, 
but I can’t now. Is there nothing I can say or do to con- 
vince you, that, though my love is like cornstalk molasses, 
it is sincere, and the best a man has to offer?” And, 
taking a step nearer, he frankly extended his hand to her. 
“ If you will take my hand, and become my wife, I will be 
your husband, and love you with a man’s true love so 
long as I live.” 

He said it quite well, and with a tremor in his voice, 
and an intense earnestness which left no doubt of his 
absolute sincerity. 

“ O Mr. Trask ! ” cried the astonished girl, “ you can- 
not mean this ! ’ ’ 

“ I do mean it ; ” still holding out his hand to her, and 
speaking with increased fervor. 

She sprang up, walked across the room, and came back. 

‘ ‘ I thought — that is supposed — somebody said that 
there was a young lady down East,” a little confused. 

“There are lots of young ladies down East, but none 
for me.” 

‘ ‘ Really and truly ? ’ ’ 

“ Truly. I may be a cornstalk man, but I ain’t one of 
that sort. That is some of Jim’s wife’s stories. She 
has had her head full of stuff about you and me.” 

“ You should not make me this — this offer, Mr. Trask. 
I am a little nobody. Your father and sister would never 
consent if I did.” 

“ I am only concerned about your consent. I don’t 
want you for my father. ’ ’ 

“ He is said to be a very nice old gentleman,” very 
brightly. 


COBNSTALK MOLASSES. 


403 


“ He’s all right ; but, if he ain’t, I can’t help it. When 
he comes to see you, he’ll be glad I was so fortunate — if 
I am to be fortunate.” 

“Mr. Trask” — 

“ Call me John, please.” 

“ Well, John, there is one thing which some one ought 
to say to you, I am sure,” hesitatingly. 

“ Well, you say it now, please.” 

“ I. don’t know how. It is something Mrs. Trask, and 
your sister Mrs. More, are anxious about. You go with 
that Miller, and — and a good many others.” 

“ You don’t care about it, I s’pose? ” he said. 

“ I heard about it. I cared for it on their account.” 

‘ ‘ On your own account ? ’ ’ 

“ Oh ! I have no account of my own,” smiling. 

“ None with me? Pretty good. Please open one with 
me — double entry, do. Well, I’ve been a bad boy. 
You never suspected me of going to Cooley’s? ” 

“ Indeed, I did not : I thought you were a gentleman.” 
“Till that night. O Elsie, you need never fear for 
me again. You would not be afraid to trust me, would 
you?” 

“No. And now, John, this is so sudden. Be your- 
self, be a man, and after a year” — 

“ A full year, Elsie ? ” 

“I am so young, and your father is coming out next 
summer,” she said. 

“ Well, at the end of a year — then what? ” 

“ If you love me, you can then ask me any thing. Is 
that long to try one ? ’ ’ 

“ Do you want to try me, Elsie? ” 

“ I want to try myself also, John.” 

“ Oh ! that is it, is it? Well, will you give me your hand 
on this : If I am a true man, shun Dick, the Cooleys, 


404 


MONSON. 


tend my farm, hoe corn, for twelve months, I may come 
and ask you to be my wife? What do you suppose you 
will say to that? ’’ 

“ That would he answering you now. How do I know 
what I will say then? ’’ 

“Well, will you give me your hand on this? Shake 
hands on it, that this is the understanding between us? 

“ Yes,” she said, holding out her hand. “ Here is my 
hand : you can trust me.” 

“I know I can,” taking it in both his. “And you 
may trust me.” 

“Ido.” 

“And, Elsie, may I ki'ss this hand? What a little one 
it is to work with ! ” caressing it. 

As she said nothing, but looked down and did not with- 
draw it, he lifted it, and bent his face over it, and pressed 
his red lips to it reverently. 

“And, Elsie, do you forgive me for what happened 
that night ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes,” still looking down, though her color rose. 

“Do you love me a little? ” 

“ That is the thing you are to ask me,” archly. 

“Oh! is it? Well Elsie, — dear Elsie, — may I not 
have one little kiss? Just one? One to live on? ” 

“ That will be an answer to the thing you are to ask 
me.” 

“ Oh, dear ! ” and there was a real sadness in his voice 
that went to the young girl’s heart. “ Not as an answer 
to that, but that you forgive me. Not a kiss of love, but 
of pardon. ’ ’ 

“You may kiss my cheek for that, John,” quite 
appreciating the distinction, and he did ; and somehow 
his lips just managed to touch hers. The warm blood 
flushed cheek and brow. 


CORNSTALK MOLASSES. 


405 


“Indeed! Indeed, Mr. Trask! You said I might 
trust you,” reprovingly. 

“ Toil may, you shall trust me ! And now I will go. 
See how good I am. When I have got a chance to win a 
right to stay I go.” 

“ Mr. Trask? ” 

“ Mr. Trask! I won’t go, unless you call me John.” 

“I shall know how to keep you then, John. Shall I 
tell Mrs. Trask that you were here, and what you said, 
and what I said ? ’ ’ 

“ Not what I said: that is my business. She has nc 
right to know what I say. ’ ’ 

“ I should tell my mother, if I had one.” 

“I should want you to; but she isn’t your mother. 
She is a good friend of mme, and a good friend enough 
of yours. But she is not a very good friend of ours. 
Do you understand that, dear ? ’ ’ 

“I think I do,” smiling as she took in the complex 
idea. 

“And now will you shake hands, and say good-by? 
and when I come again, you will come round and let me 
say good-morning without freezing me ? What is the use 
in trying to spoil your face by looking cross ? You can’t 
do it 'when you try.” 

“ It don’t do any harm, then? ” 

“ You make me feel badly by trying.” 

She gave him her hand, he kissed it, went out, and 
hurried to Esquire Allen’s. When he was gone, Elsie ran 
and brought down her mother’s Bible, and sat down by 
the baby’s crib, with a great peace in her heart, and the 
light of hope in her eyes. He loved her even then, and 
though rude, his touch did not profane. One of the 
bitter things was that he could not have loved her, but she 
now knew he did. That was only a man’s incomprehen- 
sible way. 


406 


MONSON. 


More than once the next morning the searching eyes of 
her mistress were on the happy girl’s face. “ Elsie, tell 
me,” she said, “ was John here last night? ” 

“Yes, he was;” and she could not help the flash of 
color that flew over her face, and she was too proud to 
turn it away. 

“ AYhat did he say to you? ” 

“You must ask him.” 

“ He told you not to tell me, I s’pose?” 

“I do not think I should if he had not.” 

“Why?” 

‘ ‘ What he said is his secret. If you ask him I think 
he will tell you. He told you before.” 

“ Was it about that? ” 

“ All about that.” 

“ Why do you look so pleased and happy? ” 

“ I always do when I feel well, don’t I? ” . 

‘ ‘ And you feel well this morning ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I feel well this morning, and you know I would not if 
I was guilty of any thing.” 

“ I know you would not. You are a good girl. And, 
Elsie, you are getting to be very much of a woman too, I 
see.” 

And Elsie felt that she was. 


“JOHK, there’s your WIFE.” 


407 


CHAPTER V. 

IN WHICH THE OLD MAN SAYS: “JOHN, THERe’s TOUR 
WTIFE."’ 

“John,” said the perplexed Mrs. Trask Jo him, when 
he came around the next evening, “ I don’t know what to 
say to you.” 

“ Well, then, say something good and kind ; for if you 
should blame me, and it should turn out to be wrong, as it 
would, you would be unhappy forever after.” He was in 
very good spirits. 

“What if I should praise, when you ought to be 
blamed?” 

“Well, I think it better to err from kindness than to 
blunder from cussedness, especially when I am the subject 
of the experiment.” 

“ Now I expect — I am quite certain — that you have 
been doing something that will dead to bad ” — 

“Oh, oh! Stop right there! Don’t finish any thing 
that is certain to go from bad to worse. What do you 
suspect? ” 

“Why, here you have been around, mooning about, 
melancholy as a newly-weaned calf, and here was Elsie 
silent and drooping as a sick kitten ; and all at once she is 
as fresh and rosy as can be, and you are jubilant — fairly 
witty.” 

“Don’t you wish something would happen to you? It 
must be something criminal, to make two sad ones happy 
— or at least cheerful.” 


408 


MONSON. 


‘ ‘ Why do you come here when I am away ? ” 

“Why are you away when I come here? That’s what 
I want to know.” 

“ Well, you knew I was away last night, and you came 
up on purpose because I was.” 

“Yes, that helped, but that was not all the cause. 
Your absence is what they call a negative. That other 
thing, its opposite, — the positive, I believe, — must have 
had much more to do with it, I think.” 

“Elsie was that, I suppose? ” 

“Well, I am quite positive that she had much to do 
with it. You see, sis, I wanted to know how it would 
seem to come here once and not find you here.” 

“ And you liked it so well that you’ll watch for another 
chance, I suppose?” 

“Well, no, I think that will do.” 

“ Now, John, what did you say to her? ” 

‘ ‘ I said I had been a fool. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What was the use of saying that ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That was' the starting-point. ” 

“Well, what' did she say to that? ” 

“ She agreed with me.” 

“,Yes, there could be no doubt about that. Well? ” • 
“I began with being a fool, and grew fooler.” 

“ And will end with being foolest, I suppose. Will you 
answer me one question ? ” 

“ A dozen.” 

“ I don’t want to ask more than three or four.” 

“ Better rattle ’em all in now, while I feel like answer- 
ing.” 

“ Well, to begin with, are you engaged? ” 

‘ ‘ Engaged ! What do you mean ? ’ ’ 

“ You know very well. Now answer.” 

“ I am not, — we are not.” 


“JOHN, there’s your WIEE.” 


409 


“Very well/’ 

“Yes, but it could be a good deal better.” 

“ Does she love you? ” 

“Who? Elsie?” 

“ Of course, goosey.” 

“Ask her. It is her secret. She never told me. If 
she had I would not tell of it. I will tell you what she 
said about my love,- if you want to know.” 

“ Well, let us hear. It was something good, no doubt.” 

“She said it was like old Mother Rogers’s cornstalk 
molasses, the less of it used the sweeter the things were. 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! What do you think of that? ” 

“ It was pretty true, though not complimentary.” 

“ To my father’s youngest son.” 

“ Well, I don’t see as I am making much headway.” 

“I don’t think you are. The fact, sis, is, I didn’t 
make much headway myself.” 

“Yet you are wonderfully well satisfied, and so is she. 
I never saw a little go so far.” 

‘ ‘ That shows how modest and unselfish we are. Who 
could have the heart to come between us, and try to make 
us miserable? ” 

“I don’t know, I am sure. Seriously, what do you 
suppose your father will say? ” 

“ John Trask, senior? ” 

“Yes.” 

“About what?” 

“ About this.” 

“ This what? ” 

“ Why, this between you and Elsie — goosey/* 

“ Elsie Wilson?” 

“Yes.” 

“ What is there between us? ” 

“ Sure enough ! ” 


ilO 


MONSON. 


“Well, if you will tell what it is, I think I can guess 
pretty well what our worthy and patriotic parent will 
say.” 

“ Now, John, I ain’t a bit satisfied.” 

“Nor I 'either. I wish you would call in Elsie and 
ask her. I want much to see her.” 

“ Now, John Trask ” — 

“John Trask, junior, if you please.” 

“ I am not agoin’ to have you hanging about my house 
courtin’ my hired girl.” 

“That is precisely what she said she would not have. 
Now, what is a fellow to do? I shall do what I can ; but 
with both of you against me, I sha’n’t make much head- 
way. I shall have Jim on my side.” 

“ Jim ! He’ll do a good deal for ye.” 

“I’ve heard of his courting one woman, and I think 
he’d better do it over.” 

“ I wish he’d try it.” 

“ So do I. It would make some opening for me.” 

“ John, you are too bad. You know I wish you well,” 
vexed and teary. 

“ My dear sister,” approaching, and laying his arm re- 
spectfully and tenderly about her waist, ‘ ‘ is there any 
thing in the world better, that you can wish an honest- 
hearted young man, than that he might win Elsie Wilson 
for his wife. Of all the girls you ever knew, have you 
ever known her superior, raised in the woods, without 
father or mother, as she was? ” 

“ That is a serious question, John.” 

“ It is, and before God I will deal with it seriously and 
honestly.” 

The kind-hearted woman was much impressed by his 
words and manner, and resolved from that moment to re- 
main passive, only conducting herself with a watchful re- 


“JOHN, there’s YOHR WIFE.” 411 

gard toward the young girl, placed in her trying position, • 
and leave results to others. 

Elsie, however, conducted herself with a rare prudence. 
She met John, when he came, pleasantly^ but never 
regarded him as there on her account. She never went 
out to walk or ride with him, nor did she in any way show 
that she had any claim on or expectation of him ; nor 
did any one but Mrs. Trask suspect there was really any 
thing between them, and at times she was in doubt about 
it. 

In the mean time John broke entmely with the Miller 
crew. He made a great quantity of maple sugar that 
spring, and had a lot of hands chopping and clearing and 
planting corn, sowing spring wheat, oats, &c. ; and the 
spring ran into the summer, and about the middle of 
June his father arrived from the East. 

He was a short, rather stumpy man, lame with the rheu- 
matism, and walked with a cane, of a severe look but 
kindly, and he loved money with a miser’s passion. A 
man of slight culture, his life had been devoted to gaining 
money. He had made liberal advances to his children, 
and then intended they should take care of themselves. 
He had still quite a fortune for that day in his own hands, 
which he intended to retain, and which he loaned on mort- 
gages where the titles and values were like the foundations 
of the globe. It was supposed he would bring a thousand 
or two for loans in Ohio, and his coming was an event. 
He was expected to make his home at Jim’s, where there 
were fewer children, and more room ; and Jim, who had a 
thrifty turn, was not without expectations. He was apt 
to be on hand when the old gentleman was handling 
money, and had a way of picking up and holding on to 
small bills, sometimes to the senior’s annoyance. 

Well, he came, took his trunk to Jim’s, had the best 


412 


MONSON. 


room, and was at home. He took a fancy to Elsie at 
once. No old man could be so curmudgeonly as not to 
do that. She was so sweet, so modest, so full of gentle 
spirits, and had such handy, pretty woman’s ways, and 
the bright color had such a way of coming into her cheeks. 
Then she was so neat and deft ; and, without being in the 
least officious, she did so many things, and with such a 
will, for the lonely old man, that before a week was over 
she had quite won his heart. And when he had nothing 
else to do, whfch was most of the time, he would sit and 
watch Elsie. There could not be a pleasanter occupation. 
He noticed that she was low voiced, and every thing on 
the farm, from the horses to The cat, knew and loved her. 

‘ ‘ Who is she ? ” he asked, on the next day after his 
arrival, of Jim’s wife. 

’ ‘ ‘ She is our girl. ’ ’ 

“ One you have taken, adopted? ” 

“ No, we picked her up.” 

“Picked ’er up, ha? Well, somebody else will be 
pickin’ ’er away from you before long : such girls don’t 
mn long.” 

“ She is our hired girl.” 

“ Hired girl, eh? Well, I used to be a hired boy ; and 
if I was a young man now I should offer her board and 
clothes for life, for whatever she might do.” 

“Well! if that ain’t a pretty beginnin’ 1 ” said the 
young matron to herself. 

It was a busy season, and the old man was more in- 
clined to have the boys attend to their farm work than to 
him. He was going to stay all summer, and he was bet- 
ter pleased with their duty to the com. It was the second 
hoeing, and a wet season ; and John had shrewdness 
enough to know that Elsie, left to herself, would win her 
OAvn way to the withered old heart. 


“JOHN, there’s your WIFE.” 


413 


On the third or fourth day the old man took it into 
his head that he wanted to go up to Chardon, to make an 
inquiry about a land title he talked of making a loan on. 
Jim was away, and had the steady horse in the corn- 
field. Whereupon Elsie harnessed the other into the light 
wagon, and offered to drive him, which the old gent was 
only too willing to accept, and off they went. At first 
he was a little uneasy. The horse was spirited ; but the 
young woman’s hands were strong and firm, and she 
showed such a mastery of him-, that he was not only 
quite at ease, but she won greatly on his good will and 
admiration. 

On their way home they drove round by More’s, where 
they made a stop, and took supper, and so home in the 
cool of the day. 

The next afternoon he wanted to go round and see 
John’s corn. He had not intended to go till Saturday ; 
but he would take John and his corn by surprise, and, so 
round they went about four, and the old man was charmed 
with the corn on the new rich bottom lands. They drove 
leisurely along by the field in the highway. John was at 
work at a little distance, with one or two men on a new 
fence, and the old man wanted to see him, and could not 
well go to him, and was too distant to call, nor did he 
see them. “ Would Elsie mind going for him ? ” — “ She 
would not mind going at all.” And he was charmed with 
the pretty color that flushed her face as she sprang from 
the carriage, and picked her way daintily over the rough 
ground. Tie never took his eyes from her. 

John was very much surprised, as none of them saw 
her approach till she spoke “ Mr. Trask ! ” 

“Why, Elsie! Did you light down from the clouds? 
I believe you did.” What a glory her flushed face and 
bright eyes, her charming print dress and graceful form, 


414 


MONSON. 


shed over the rough, stumpy, dark, and grimy new ground. 
He might well fancy that she flew there. 

“ No : I lit down from your brother’s buggy, where your 
father sits now, waiting to see you, and I came to call 
you.” 

“ Oh ! you did? AYell, boys,” to the men, “ flnish this 
up. You see, I am taken ! ” with a laugh, as he turned 
and walked away with the girl. 

“ O Elsie ! I am more pleased than I can say.” 

“ He is real nice, I can tell you,” was her response. 

“And he likes you? ” 

“ I harnessed the horse, and took him to Chardon yes- 
terday, and round to Mr. More’s, where we took supper,” 
was her reply to that question. 

“Well said! If that don’t beat me ! What does Jim’s 
wife say ? ” 

“ Nothing to me. You see, there is nobody else to do 
it for the poor, dear old man.” 

“ And you like to do' it on my account, Elsie? ” 

“ I should do it for any such old, helpless man, on my 
own account.” 

“ Yes, of course ; but don’t you think of me? ” 

“ Well, I see you,” with an arch smile. 

“ How do I look? ” 

“You would be improved by washing your hands and 
face,” quite decidedly, with an arch smile. 

“ And putting on a jacket and coat? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said the young girl, looking him over 
with a flush. She had never seen him stripped to sliu’t 
and pants before, and she had a woman’s eye and admira- 
tion for a handsome lithe form. 

‘ ‘ I think you do very well as you are — to work, or 
look at.” 

“Thank you.” 


“JOHN, there’s your WIFE.” 


415 


As they approached the buggy, the old man thought he 
had never seen a handsomer young pair, and he wondered 
“ What on airth John was thinkin’ on.” I suspect that 
John’s mind was running in the same channel. After a 
few words, “John, it’s most night, you won’t do much 
more, anyway. Let us drive along round your place, an’ 
then you hop in, an’ go over to Jim’s with us. What do 
you say ? ” said the old man. 

“ Agreed.” Nothing could suit him so well. 

“ An’ what do you say. Miss Elsie? ” 

“ I say nothing. I am only driver,” with her eyes 
clown. 

“Well, will you drive him back? ” 

“ I only drive for you,” naively. “ He can walk back, 
or take his own horse.” 

“My horse is away in the pasture. May I ride over 
V7ithyou?” 

“ You will ride over with Mr. Trask, your father, like a 
good boy, and I shall drive.” 

“ Thank you, and now let me put you into the buggy.” 

“ Thank you, I will put myself in,” which she did. 

“Well, she’s independent, anyway,” thought the old 
man, who felt that she was robbing John of what was his 
rightful due. 

“ Yes, all right, I remember. I will walk to the house 
and get my coat, and be out in a moment,” said the young 
man, hurrying away. 

“I wonder what that means?” thought the old man. 
“ What did John moan by ‘ I remember ’ ? ” 

Elsie drove along to the house, where, five minutes lat(M’, 
John came out quite spruce. Elsie arose, and made room 
for him in her own seat, and, as the two now filled it, she 
looked a little puzzled and colored. The old man was 
equal to the occasion, which embarrassed John a little. 


416 


MONSON. 


“You will sit right down on John’s knees,” he said 
- decidedly, “ and not bear any of your heft on your feet. 
That is the place for a girl to sit, especially when the old 
man is along.” 

“ Thank you, father,” from John, with real gratitude ; 
and the young girl thus ordered seated herself lightly on 
John’s willing knees without a word, but with a burning 
face. The road along by John’s farm was new and 
stumpy, and the ground uneven ; and it required some 
skill, with slow driving, to guide the carriage with safety, 
and John rendered the poor child a real service when, with 
his right arm, he drew and held her to a firmer seat, until 
they gained a smooth road, where he forgot to remove his 
arm. Elsie scarcely spoke on the way home. On the 
smooth road, she let her eyes fall on the well-formed, 
strong, brown, manly hand which supported her, — the 
hand which had been offered her. She admired it very 
much. And she wondered if it found pleasure in resting 
there ; and she wondered if it was a real pleasure to John 
to support her on his knees, and on the whole, she rather 
thought it was. She thought he ought to remove the 
hand ; and then, just before they reached Jim’s, she gently 
inserted the tips of her own fingers between the brown 
thumb and finger, as if to remind him to remove it ; and 
they were very gently clasped and detained, and she could 
quite feel the thrill which her touch sent through the heart 
of her lover. She was grateful that Jim’s wife was not 
there to see her in John’s lap. The instant she pulled up 
at the gate, she sprang from the carriage, and surrendered 
the horse to Jim, who was out, and walked into the house. 

John helped his father out, and as they stood a mo- 
ment, — 

“ John ! ” said the old man solemnly. 

“ What, father ? ” 

“ There’s your wife.” 


THE MISEE. 


417 


• CHAPTER VI. 

THE mSER. 

John, junior, had all the shrewdness of his father, with 
the advantages of a much better education. For a farm- 
er’s boy of that day, his advantages had been superior ; 
and, though not especially intellectual, he was greatly iii 
advance of those around him. So far as his father was 
concerned, he deemed it wisest to leave his and Elsie’s 
case in her hands ; and for himself he rather played off, 
seemed indifferent, and, when rallied by the old man, af- 
fected to think that his chances were small. The old 
gentleman once spoke to Jim’s wife about it, who, while 
speaking in terms of commendation of Elsie, intimated 
that she had not thought of a match between the young 
people, which he regarded as strange. And so did she. 
“ How are John and Elsie getting on? ” asked Mrs. More 
of her sister-in-law. “Do you suppose there is any 
understanding between them ? ’ ’ 

Of course there is.” 

‘ ‘ Why, I thought you said that there had been nothing 
said between them.” 

“ Well, they are deep. They understand without words. 
These boys and girls know more about these things at ten 
than you and I ever will.” 

‘ ‘ What will father say ? He seemed completely taken 
with her when they were at our house.” 

“Law! men are all alike, let one on ’em see a 
pretty face ! They are all fools about women, and an old 


418 


MONSON. 


fox)l is the worst of all. John is a fool about her, Jim 
is fooler, and father is foolest. We may as well give it 
up. If she ain’t our sister-in-law, she’ll be our step- 
mother. She’s bound to come in. You ought to see the 
way she manages father. It is too funny for any thing in 
this world.” 

“ Why, r never thought she was artful.” 

“ No, she ain’t. She don’t seem to be aware of it, and 
in that is her art. One can’t help liking her, and if I was 
a girl I should envy her.” 

“Well, I am sure I shall like her, if it suits father,” 
Mrs. More’s resigned answer. 

And so it ran on. 

On the Saturday of the second week of the old gentle- 
man’s visit, he and Jim went to Chardon, where he closed 
up two loans, and took securities. They returned in the 
evening, and he was late in bed the next morning. About 
nine in the forenoon, Jim, his wife, the old gentleman, 
and the two older children, went off to church, and did not 
return till after four in the afternoon. Elsie remained at 
home with the baby, as he was still called. She after- 
ward said that she was alone all day. John was expected 
there that afternoon or evening, but did not come, and the 
old man and Jim, as well as Jim’s wife, several times 
remarked upon his absence, and it was afterward remem- 
bered that Elsie did not say a word about it, and it seemed 
to have been forgotten that she never did speak of John 
unless spoken to about him. The old gentleman on the 
next morning was pottering about in his room looking for 
some papers and notes. He had then put out all the 
money he brought with him to loan, as he told Jim. In- 
deed, his son supposed that he had no more with him, 
except for his personal expenses in the country and on his 
retui’n. Such was not the fact, however. There was, or 


THE MISER. 


419 


ought to be, in his pocket-book, several one-hundred-dol- 
lar bills on an Albany bank. He went to his trunk on 
this Monday morning, and was surprised to find the handle 
of the key broken off, though the trunk was unlocked. 
He opened it, found his pocket-book, opened that, and 
sank down on the floor. The bills were gone, — all of 
them. With trembling fingers he ran the book through. 
There was not a dollar in it. He plunged his hands into 
his inside breast-pockets. Both were empty. He pulled 
out a small wallet in which was quite a sum in tens and 
twenties. The missing bills were not there. He grasped 
the rifled pocket-book in both hands, and tried to think. 
He could not. There was no use in thinking. The 
money had been stolen. He knew it was in that pocket- 
book on Saturday. He placed it in that trunk in the 
evening, and had not been to the trunk since, till that 
moment. He lifted up the contents of the trunk, and 
put it under every thing, on the bottom, and there he 
found it. The stem of the key had been broken at the 
handle, and a bit of wood substituted, like the handle of a 
gimlet. That was split off, and the pieces were found near 
the trunk, which was conclusive that some one had been 
there. The sudden death of a son or daughter would 
have greatly shocked the old man. The love of money 
lay embedded in his heart and soul deeper than the love 
of children. The loss of this money was a greater calami- 
ty to him. It paralyzed him. He sat in an agony of 
speechless woe, with great beads of perspiration starting 
on his brow, with his helpless hands nerveless at his sides, 
while groan after groan escaped him. 

Elsie at that moment ran up the stairs to make his bed, 
and tidy up the room. She saw him sitting flat on the 
floor, an image of despair, moaning, “My money is 
stolen ! My money is stolen ! ” She was frightened, and 


420 


MONSOX. 


turned away, unable to speak. Ere she recovered, Jim^s 
wife came up, at sight of whom he cried in louder tones, 
* ‘ My money ! Oh, my money ! ’’ 

“ What — what — what is it, father? ” in alarm. 

“My money is stolen! Somebody has stolen my 
money. Jim has got it. Where is Jim? ’’ 

At the first cry of his money, Elsie uttered an exclama- 
tion, and, rushing past Mrs. Trask, ran down stairs ; and, 
when next seen, was trying to busy herself about her 
work, pallid and distrait. 

Mrs. Trask rushed up to the old man. 

“ Your money stolen? ” and then, picking up the wallet 
which in his perturbation he had dropped, ‘ ‘ Oh, no, 
father! here it is.” 

“ Not that ! not that ! I had five hundred dollars in 
here,” holding up the pocket-book. “ Five one-hundred- 
dollar bills on the Farmers’ Bank of Albany. Jim has 
got it, the villain ! ” 

“Hush! hush! How could he get it? He didn’t 
know you had it. And then he was away with you all the 
time yesterday.” 

“ He had time. He’s always snoopin’ around.” 

“Oh! it is here, father,” helping him up. “There, 
sit down, and let us look.” 

And the first thing she found was the pieces of the 
wooden handle of the key ; and, when these were ex- 
plained to her, she trembled, and her heart sank. 

“ There has been somebody here,” she said, “ and it 
was not Jim. He knew how to lock and unlock yoim 
trunk, and did it for you when you first came here, don’t 
you remember ? ” 

“Yes. Oh, it wa’n’t him ! ” 

“ Besides, he wouldn’t steal from you, father. Let me 
look.” 


. THE MISER. 


421 


And she did look everywhere thoroughly ; and then she 
gave it up and sent for her husband, and he came in and 
renewed the hunt, and the thing was talked over by the 
three, and Elsie was hunted up. Mrs. Trask found her 
in the garden, affecting to be at work on a bed of young 
beets, and observed that she looked seared and troubled ; 
and she told her she was wanted up stairs. She arose, 
and followed her mistress up to the room, where the 
woman turned, and, showing her the severed parts of the 
key-handle, asked her if she knew what they were. She 
answered that they looked like Mr. Trask’s key-handle, 
which she had seen a good many times. “I was here 
when you first came up,” to Mrs. Trask, “and I heard 
your father say his money was stolen.” 

‘ ‘ Why did you run away ? ’ ’ 

“ I did not suppose I would be wanted here.” 

“ Who was here yesterday while we were gone to meet- 
ing?” asked the woman. 

“ Who was here yesterday? ” was the girl’s response. 

“ Yes ; who was here while we were gone? ” 

“ Let me think,” was her answer. 

“Yes, think. You had better.” 

She walked away to the window, turned back, and with 
a steady eye and firm voice said, “ There was no one with 
me but the baby from the time you left until your return.” 

‘ ‘ Are you sure ? ’ ’ 

“ I have thought of it, and I was alone.” 

‘ ‘ Do you know father had his money stolen yester- 
day?” 

‘ ‘ I heard him say it was stolen. He did not say when 
it was done.” 

“It was stolen yesterday,” said the old man hoarsely, 
“ and you stole it.” 

A silence of a minute, in which all eyes were on the 


422 


MONSON. 


girl’s face, which was blanched a little now. Her eyes 
dilated, her nostrils expanded, and her soft lips closed 
firmly. 

“ Why don’t you answer? ” said Mrs. Trask at length. 

“ Why don’t I answer what he says? If I deny it, you 
won’t believe me : if I don’t, you will say I can’t deny it. 
I think it as easy to lie as to steal.” Very quietly this 
was said. 

“Perhaps you know how easy both are,” said Mrs. 
Trask in a hard way. 

The girl started up, made a step toward the insulting 
woman. “ I never did lie, I never did steal,” she said 
firmly, and turned and walked away. 

The old man sprang up. “Elsie! Elsie! For God’s 
sake, come back ! come back ! ” 

She stepped within the room. 

“Come here,” he said in a softer voice. “If you’ll 
give me back the money, nothing shall ever be said about 
it. You only took it for a joke. Just give it back, and 
nothing will be said about it, not even to John.” 

“John! You shall tell John, and see what he will 
say.” This was spoken passionately. 

“Elsie, I have always been your friend,” said Jim, 
mjich distressed. 

“ I know you have, Mr. Trask,” very gently. 

“This is a serious business,” he went on to say. 
“You must return the money, or — or we will have to 
send for a constable, and you will be taken to jail.” 

“ Do you think I would steal, Mr. Trask? How should 
I know he had any money ? ’ ’ 

“I did not think you would steal, Elsie,” was his 
answer. 

“You have changed your mind. There is the little 
room you have permitted me to sleep in, and in it are the 


THE MISER. 


423 


few things I could earn. Go and search it, take every 
thing,” she said. 

As she spoke she went into it, and took from a deal 
box-like chest her mother’s Bible, and went down and out 
into the garden, where was a grape arbor ; there she sat 
down on a rough seat. 

A search was made, not only of her room and the few 
things in it, but of all the premises in and out about the 
house. 

“Did you go away from the house yesterday while we 
were gone, Elsie?” asked Mrs. .Trask, approaching her 
about two hours later. 

“Why do you ask? You believe nothing I say. I 
will say nothing more about it.” 

About noon James rode over to John’s, and came back 
about two with word that John went off suddenly to 
Cleveland the night before, saying he would be back that 
evening or the next morning. The three exchanged 
looks. This was significant. 

“ He has carried the money to Cleveland,” said the old 
man. “ They are both in it — both on ’em.” 

“Father, would you suspect John?” asked Mrs. 
Trask. 

“She could git him to do any thing,” cried the un- 
reasoning man. “ She could me. I tell you they’re both 
in it,” querulously. 

And then Jim and his wife went out to Elsie. “ Answer 
me one more question,” said Mrs. Trask. “Was John 
here yesterday ? ” 

“I told you no one was with me but baby,” she an- 
swered, without looking at them. 

Then there was a long discussion, after which Jim went 
down to Esquire Harris’s and brought him up in his buggy, 
and they took him out to where the wretched girl still sat, 


424 


MONSON. 


with her mother’s little Bible in her hand, pale, but placid 
and tearless. The kind, stupid old man with his crutches 
made his way to her, and, after a two-hours’ fruitless 
effort with her, in which he did the talking, in the presence 
of Jim and his wife, he returned to the house, prepared 
an affidavit, to which the elder Trask was sworn, charging 
Elsie Wilson with the larceny of the missing money, and 
just at sundown a constable came with a warrant and 
arrested her, telling her she was his prisoner. 

“ Am I to go to jail to-night? ” she asked eagerly. 

' “ Oh, no ! ” 

“Where can I stay, then? Will you take me some- 
where ? ” 

“You will stay here to-night,” answered the kind-hearted 
man. “ Or you may go and stay with me, at my house.” 

“ Oh, thank you ! I will go with you, then. They say 
in here that I stole Mr. Trask’s money — John Trask’s 
father’s money,” she said, “ and they won’t let me stay 
here, and I don’t want to.” 

“Elsie! ” cried Mrs. Trask, “you know you can stay 
here. We want you should stay here.” 

“I don’t want to stay here. May I go and get my 
sun-bonnet? That will be orood enough.” 

“O my God! Mr. Roberts,” to the constable, “bring 
her in here, for God’s sake, and stay here with her if 
necessary,” cried Mrs. Trask, in great distress. 

“ Leave her in my care : I will be responsible for her,” 
said Jim, wiping his eyes. 

“ Would that be right? ” asked Elsie of the constable. 

“ Perfectly right,” he answered. 

“ Shall you come and take me to jail in the morning?” 

“Not unless Esquire Harris orders me to.” 

“ And what if I run away in the night? ” 

“ You won’t. I will come for you in the morning.” 


THE MISER. 


425 


She seemed now to forget her repugnance to entering 
the house, but went in, much as an entire stranger would 
who was shy, and did not know the customs of the people 
of the house. She sat without a word, declined to talk 
with the old man, whose helpless childish grief for the 
loss of his money seemed to excite her surprise and con- 
tempt. When pressed to eat, she drank a bowl of milk, 
and later asked if they would permit her to take little 
Robbie up to her room with her, as was her custom ; and 
when she received assent, she took him asleep from his 
crib, and carried him up to her room. 

Late in the night, ere she retired, Mrs. Trask stole up 
to the poor child’s room with a candle in her hand, and 
noiselessly approached the bedside. Elsie was sweetly 
sleeping. A warm flush was on her cheek. Her face was 
turned a little to that of Robbie, who slept on her arm, 
whose face her own resembled in its pure -innocence. 
While she thus gazed, moved to tears by the sight, a little 
agitation stirred the girl’ s' face, her lips moved, and there 
stole from them, “ Indeed, indeed, John, I did not.” 

“ I know you did not, you blessed innocence,” said the 
stricken woman ; ‘ ‘ and may God bring some light out of 
this thick darkness.” 

In the morning Elsie was up early, washed and dressed 
her charge, and asked permission to aid about the house, 
where every thing was sad and silent, as if the family had 
been stricken by a death. 

After breakfast Roberts came in, and asked if any thing 
had occurred, and, being told there had not, said to Elsie 
that they must go to Esquire Harris’s. She put on her 
bonnet, .had a small bundle of her girl’s clothes ready, 
took her mother’s Bible in her hand, kissed the children 
good-by, stepped out of the door, cast a last look around 
the yard, and went out to the wagon. Jim had his own 


426 


MONSON. 


carriage at the gate, in which his wife and father were to 
go, while the children were left with the woman who had 
charge of the dairy. James came forward and helped 
Elsie into the buggy, which he entered and drove off, 
while Roberts went in the larger carriage. 

Early as it was, a rumor of something strange had run 
over the township ; and a hundred men and boys were 
gathered about in the yard and highway in front of the 
justice’s house. 

As the buggy drove up. Uncle Tom Hazen stepped 
forward and took the young gM from it in his arms as if 
she had been 'a little child. “ You blessed orphant ! ” he 
said, with a tremulous voice. “We knows ye’s innercent 
as an unbora lam’, an’ there sha’n’t be a hair'o’ yer head 
harmed. I’ll take keer o’ ye.” 

“ Thank you, thank you,” said Elsie, struggling to her 
feet on the ground. She was immediately conducted into 
the presence of the court, where, in the suavest way 
imaginable. Uncle Tom announced that the defendant was 
ready. The court fidgeted, and seemed to wait, like 
Macawber, for something to turn up. As nothing did, he 
complied with Uncle Tom’s repeated request — “ To per- 
ceed to onct.” 

Poor old man Trask was sworn, and told the story as 
the reader has heard it. 

Nothing could surpass the_ soft, sweet way in which 
Uncle Tom then talked the case up with him, unless it 
was his ingenuity, and the effectiveness .with which it was 
done. He fully exposed the weak and inconclusive nature 
of the evidence. The old man put his pocket-book, in 
which he supposed the money to be, and of which nobody 
else knew a word, in his trunk at eight Saturday night. 
At eight Monday morning he could not find it in the 
pocket-book. On search it was not found anywhere. 


THE MISER. 


427 


The defendant, a child who knew nothing of the money, 
a son and his wife, all remained in the house that night 
and till nine the next morning, when they and the loser 
were absent till four, where all remained till the money 
was missed. On the discovery the loser accused his son 
of taking it, and accused John of it, just as positively as 
he did the > poor child, all of which, at great pains and 
ingenuity. Uncle Tom brought out. The old man would 
I not say that he believed she stole the money. Mrs. 
I ' Trask’s evidence did the most damage when she recounted 
I the words and manner of Elsie when the loss was discov- 
f ered. But Uncle Tom brought her around to the scene iu 
^ the poor girl’s chamber, of the sleeping faces of the chil- 
j dren, equal in their innocence ; and he even secured the 
I sleeping girl’s words of denial, at which the old man’s 
voice broke, and the whole crowd burst into sobs, while 
Elsie sat with a serene, sweet face through it all, with her 
hands clasped round her mother’s Bible. The book 
attracted her advocate’s notice. 

“ What is this the child has in her hands, Mrs. Trask?” 
he asked. 

“ Her mother’s Bible.” ' 

“ My God, gentlemen ! ” exclaimed the artful old man, 
with real, natural tears in his voice as well as in his eyes, 

‘ ‘ see the poor, innercent orphant bringin’ here and dingin’ 
to her dead mother’s Bible, God’s own etarnal witness of 
her inner cence.” 

He arose to the full of his gigantic height as he uttered 
these words, threw up his arms, and raised his streaming 
eyes to the God to whom he appealed, and uttered the 
sentence with a natural power and eloquence seldom sur- 
passed, and which elicited a burst of applause from the 
profoundly moved audience. 

As nothing more was said or offered, the heavy moulded 


428 


MONSON. 


Court hitched on his seat, cleared his throat, and, after 
some minutes, began to mumble something about the mat- 
ter before him. How he would have come out finally, 
or what would judicially have followed, will never be 
known ; for just as he was about to conclude, a commotion 
was made in the crowd about the open door, through which 
John Trask, jun.,, made his way. He rushed into the 
court, covered with dust and perspiration, and cried out. 

Hold on, squire ! Elsie Wilson did not steal that money ! 
Let me be sworn.” 

At his appearance, Elsie arose from her seat, with a 
deadly pallor on- cheek and lip, succeeded by a rush of 
carnation. As he finished his words, she exclaimed, — 

“ John ! For Heaven’s sake ” — 

And then, as if recalling herself, she sank down, 
covered her face with her hands, and, for the first time, 
burst into tears. 

And the now tumultuous citizens of the State of Mon- 
son broke forth with rounds of applause. 

When something like order was restored, Squire Harris 
announced that the prisoner was discharged from custody, 
when Uncle Tom took up the Scarcely conscious girl, and 
carried her into the open air, where the rude natures of 
the untaught men and boys, under the touch of the com- 
mon mother, hailed her and each other as of kin. 

John the younger immediately came to her side, and 
clasped one of her hands in both of his in mute emotion. 

“ Miss Wilson,” said her brave old defender, “ my ruff 
shall shelter ye. You shall find porridge and hominy in 
our dish ; an’ hearts to love ; an’ ban’s to defend ye ; an’, 
till frins ye like. better claims ye, I ax the privilege of per- 
tectin’ on ye.” 

“Thank you, thank you. Uncle Tom, for her and my- 
self ! ” said John warmly. “ I am her true friend, though 


THE MISER. 


429 - 


she has given me no right to act, or even speak, for her. 
I am sure my brother and his wife cannot mean to cast 
her oif : if they do ” — 

“ What, John ? For God’s sake, don’t say more ! ” said 
Jim’s wife, greatly moved. 

“ Father was distracted — hush ! Let us all go home. — 
Mr. Hazen, we are all under the deepest obligation to you. 
Do you and John take Elsie in his buggy, and bring her 
home, where we will tallc it all over. I am. sure that will 
be the best way.” 

“Will you go, Elsie?” asked Uncle Tom. “I think 
it’s better so.” 

“Just as you wish,” she said; when, supported by 
Uncle Tom, with John on the other side, still retaining 
the dear hand, they conducted her to John’s buggy, which 
Uncle Tom stepped into ; and, taking the passive girl on 
his lap as he would any child, they were driven by John 
back to Jim’s house, followed by Jim, with his wife and 
father. 

The excited crowd lingeringly dispersed, and went away 
eagarly discussing the whole matter, and wondering what 
the final explanation would be. 


430 


MONSON. 


CHAPTER YII., 

WAIT TILL YE CAN MARRY IN THE SUNSHINE. 

On their arrival at home, the parties assembled in the 
family room, and it was noticeable that Elsie had some- 
what recovered her usual spirits, though she seemed quite 
anxious for something connected with John, who looked 
angry, and was silent. 

The old man was the most cast down. Jim was in jolly 
good spirits, while his wife was almost happy, and seemed 
concerned about Elsie. 

“ I understand,” said John, “ that Elsie says that there 
was no one here on Sunday, after the rest of you went to 
church, until you returned. That was not so.” 

All eyes were turned upon the young girl, who dropped 
her head, abashed. 

“ It is not for me to blame her for the statement ; for I 
know it was made to save me, and to save the name of 
Trask, good or bad.” 

Elsie here raised her eyes with a steady look to John’s 
face, who went on : — 

“ I was here that morning., (A sensation.) I went up 
stairs and into your room, father,” turning to the old man. 
“I opened your trunk. If there was any money taken 
from your pocket-book, I did it.” 

A start from aU, when Elsie arose and stepped up to 
John. 

‘‘O John! you did not take the money. Don’t say 
you did : I will not believe you. Why did you not leave 


WAIT TILL YE CAN MARRY IN THE SUNSHINE. 431 

I 

it as I told it? Let them think I took it, if they will,” in 
great distress. 

“ I will go to the penitentiary first. Think you — you, 
Elsie Wilson, would steal? Let father charge me with 
it. It seems he has accused us all, except Jim’s wife. If 
he accuses you again, I will go into court, and swear I 
stole it. I’ll repay the money in a year.” 

“O John! John!” cried the wretched old man. 
“ Don’t say another word. I don’t care where the money 
is. I am glad it is you. If you have got it, keep it. I 
am most heart-broken. I didn’t know as I loved money 
so much. I’m glad it’s you. Lost or stolen, what mat- 
ters it now ? ’ ’ 

“ It matters this,” said John. “You accused this girl, 
on your oath : you swore you believed she had stolen your 
money — believed it. She, who would take upon her own 
innocent head the crime, would tell a lie to save me — save 
your son, your own name, my dead mother’s boy, your 
wife’s child, from the shame of robbing his own father ! 
Do you hear? Do you comprehend, old man? ” 

“John! John!” cried Elsie. “He is your father, 
old and broken. Spare him.” 

“ He spared none in his love for a few dollars. Curse 
the money ! ” in superb scorn. 

“Yes, yes, curse it, John. I don’t care for it any 
more. Keep it and curse it.” 

“ He thinks you have got it, John,” said Elsie sadly. 

“I don’t care what he thinks. He told me he had 
brought me my mother’s little hymn-book,” said John. 
“ And that it was in his trunk. I told him I would come 
round and get it Sunday morning. I did not want to take 
it then. I wanted an excuse to come here ” — 

“ I remember your saying that,” said Mrs. Trask. 

“When I came here, you and Jim had just driven 


432 


MONSON. 


away, and were in sight, when I drove up to the gate. I 
ran in and had a word with Elsie here, and ran up- stairs 
to father’s room. The key was in the lock. I supposed 
the trunk was locked ; and I turned the key suddenly back, 
and with such force that the wooden handle split off, and 
I threw the pieces on the floor. I opened the trunk, 
found the hymn-book, took it, and ’ ’ — hesitating, with a 
bitter smile — “I’ll raise the money for you, father. 
Perhaps I spent it in Cleveland. Well, I thought of the 
broken key ; I pulled it out of the lock, and laid it on 
the table.” 

“ I found it there,” said Mrs. Trask. 

“ And I bought a new key in Cleveland for you, father. 
I can replace so much,” said the youth, taking a new key 
out of his pocket. 

“ Wal, wal,” said the old man, not yet half redeemed 
from the grievous sin of covetousness and suspicion, 
“where is the money, anyway? You’ve got it among 
ye, and you are savin’ each other from the consequences,” 
he said querulously. 

“ Mr. Trask,” said Uncle Tom, addressing the old 
man impressively, “ I don’t envy ye yer money, I do 
envy ye these children. Don’t ye see? can’t ye see? 
Your cusein’ on ’em o’ stealin’.yer money which ye lost, 
mebbe ; mebbe ye never had non’ . Somebody else has 
pilfered it. They hain’t got it, and yer cusein’ ’em on it, 
and each on ’em is tryin’ to take it on ’emself to save 
’tother. Can’t ye see it, ye blind old beetle, or can’t ye 
comprehend such ginerosity? It doos beat all on airth I 
ever seed or hear tell on ! — It doos, sure as yer born, 
boys and gals,” turning to the others with watery eyes. 

“You are right, Mr. Hazen. It is wonderful and 
beautiful,” said Mrs. Trask, wiping her eyes, and going 
to Elsie, and kissing her warmly, who returned it. 


WAIT TILL YE CAN MARRY IN THE SUNSHINE. 438 


“Uncle Tom is right every time,’’ said Jim, whose 
eyes were running over. 

“ I ought to say,’’ continued John, “ that when I came 
down stairs I showed the hymn-hook to Elsie, and told 
her I had broken father’s key.” 

“And why didn’t you tell me of it, Elsie, when I came 
home from meetin’ ? ’ ’ asked the old man. 

“I — I did not like to tell about John’s coming here,” 
with a little color ; ‘ ‘ and the next morning, when you dis- 
covered the loss of your money, I was afraid you might 
think he — he had taken it.” 

“ Well, when I accused you? ” 

“I’d rather you would think I stole it than that he 
did — a good deal. ’ ’ 

“ You might have been put in jail, and sent to the peni- 
tentiary. ” ^ 

“ I expected to be.” 

“ And would you ha’ done that for John — to save my 
son ? ” 

“More than that — if need be,” dropping her eyes 
and voice. 

“An’ can ye forgive a weak ole man, who loved his 
money mor’n his children, for accusin’ ye of stealin ’ on 
it?” 

“ I am sorry you love the money so. You are John’s 
father, and I like you very much.” 

“An’ so you like me on John’s account? Well, will 
you forgive me ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! gladly ! ” 

“ Kiss me, then.” 

Which she did, while tears dropped from the old man’s 
eyes. 

“One thing more. Will ye be my darter — John’s 
wife? ” 


434 


MONSON. 


“He must ask me that,” rosy red, and dropping her 
face. 

“ I did ask her, father, last winter, after I had used her 
as badly as you have, and she forgave me as she has you, 
though she would not kiss me, as she has you — I don’t 
like that. And she said if I behaved myself for a year I 
might ask that question again.” 

“Oh! that was the way of it, was it? I knew there 
was something in it,” said Jim’s wife. 

‘ ‘ And has he behaved since then ? ’ ’ asked the old 
man. 

“ Beautifully.” 

‘ ‘ And shall you compel him to wait the full year before 
he asks? ” 

“ I don’t know. These strange things have happened, 
ft seems to me a year since j^esterday morning,” naively. 

“ There, John ” — 

But John did not need his father’s prompting. lie 
sprang to her side, with tears in his e3^es, and silently held 
out his hand, as on that winter night, with an averted 
face ; and, rosy from veiled bosom to bare brow, Elsie pnt 
the coveted hand within it, which the happy yonth bent 
over and kissed, when Jim’s wife clasped her in her arms, 
and kissed her effusively, calling her sister. 

“My dear sister! You will be my dearest sister. I 
never for one instant believed that storx'.” 

“An’ ya know I did not,” said Uncle Tom, approach- 
ing, around wdiose neck she threw her arms, and kissed 
his cheek, and then she kissed the children and hugged 
Bobbie. 

“Ail but me,” said John, who stood with happy tears 
in his eyes. 

She approached him with burning cheeks, hesitated, 
then stet-ped to his side, lifted licr face, with her eyes still 


WATT TILL YE CAN MAEEY IN THE SUNSHINE. 435 


on the floor, and tendered her ripe lips for his kiss. One 
arm circled her waist, and the other hand met and elapsed 
with the hand around her, and she was drawn gently and 
tenderly to his bosom, while a tremor ran through his 
frame. With a half fear, profound reverence, and pas- 
sionate love, he bent his head and placed his lips, as full 
and red as her own, to hers, while murmured blessings 
fell from the lips of the happy witnesses. 

The lovers then turned to the father. 

“ Is my blessing of worth to you? ” he asked humbly. 

“Give it us, father: we shall prize it dearly,” said 
Elsie. 

They bent, and the old man arose much affected ; and, 
laying his hands on their heads, “Bless ye! bless ye 
both 1 and God help and bless us all, especially me,” he 
said impressively. 

“Amen,” responded Uncle Tom, with a twinlde in his 
still watery eye. 

“ And now,” said the old man to Elsie, “ when shall it 
be? You know I must go home this fall.” 

“ When this money is found, or the mysteiy is cleared 
up, and so no shadow rests on us, and none on it — then 
I will tell you.” 

“That is right and faff,” said Uncle Tom: 
wait till ve can marry in the sunshine.” 


“ Better 


436 


MONSON. 


CHAPTER Vni. 

A lawyer’s little story. 

What a delicious evening that was to John, to sit apart 
with Elsie, by themselves, and be left alone by the seniors, 
when he found that she was more courageous in their 
presence than when with him alone. She was so shy and 
modest and conscientious. But he remembered the time 
when she sprang from the sleigh, and was timid as well as 
respectful, and thoughtful too, for an accepted lover, so 
young as he was, and to whom lover’s bliss was so 
strange. He remembered the great strain, the loss of 
food and rest, to which the dear girl had been subjected, 
and early dismissed himself for the night ; and then he 
hurried out to see the light in her little room, which was 
soon extinguished, and in his happy unrest he wandered 
through a part of the June night under the stars. 

Old man Trask awoke the next morning, peevish, un- 
settled, and dissatisfied. The fangs of a sordid passion 
were still in the fossil remains of what he called his heart. 
AVho or whatever robbed it of its idol, by fraud, stealth, 
or force, became the object of his rancorous hatred. 
What is so incurable as suspicion, unless it may be jeal- 
ousy ? He^icould not disabuse his mind of the idea of a 
complicity of John and Elsie with his loss. Then there 
was the mystery, the doubt, in which the loss was involved. 
Could he know certainly that these two had it, even that 
would be a source of comparative relief. The loss of the 
money in itself was a sorer trial to him than would have 


A lawyer’s little story. 437 

been the knowledge that his son had robbed him of it. 
This he was compelled to admit to himself, and shuddered 
at the thought. He had fancied himself a Christian, but 
religion was a mere sentiment, not a rule, and brought 
him no resignation, light, or rest ; and, comparing his con- 
duct with that of Uncle Tom Hazen, an admitted heathen, 
he felt that he was at a disadvantage, except that God 
would care for his own. 

Something of all this escaped from him the next morn- 
ing, when it became apparent at once that peace and light 
were banished from the household beyond the power of 
Elsie to charm them back. She felt, as the cold eyes of 
the old man turned on her, that his suspicions of her had 
returned. John had intended to go back to his farm and 
hired men, instead of which he resolved to devote himself 
to the solution of the mystery in which the money had 
disappeared. lie went at once to Uncle Tom’s, took him 
in his buggy, and, driving to Chardon, they came directly 
to me. I had seen John before, but had not made his 
acquaintance. I was much taken with him. His person 
and address were good ; and he told his story clearly, di- 
rectly, and simply. 

It excited me so much that the fact attracted the atten- 
tion of Uncle Tom. I had not heard a word of the mat- 
ter ; but its romance, the singular, features of the disap- 
pearance of the money, were such as to arrest the mind 
of a lawyer, who had, unfortunately for himself, attracted 
attention as a criminal prosecutor. And then a funny 
thing had occurred to me, which I did not care to speak 
of to them, though it helped to incite my fancy in connec- 
tion with the statement made by them. When they got 
through, I screwed down my mouth, put a severe aspect 
to my brow, and paced my two rooms with an air of in- 
tense thought. I presume no man ever was so proiound 


438 


MONSON. 


as I looked to be at that time. My whole effort, how- 
ever, was to control my eagerness to rush upon a catas- 
trophe that had formed itself within one minute from 
the statement of the loss and description of the bills. 
When I had apparently matured a complex theory of the 
case, I intimated that I thought I could see something 
like a ray of light in the darkness surrounding the trans- 
action, and asked one or two questions quite necessary to 
my real notions of the case, and said that it was impor- 
tant to see the old man, and ask him one or two things, 
for, if I was right, he probably could alone explain the 
transaction. I wanted to know whether he was at the 
law-office of O. P. Brown on the last Saturday, who 
were there with him, and every thing which occurred 
there, saying, “ I think he must have forgotten something. 
Now, you all be at Jim’s at four this aftereoon — all of 
you, and, Uncle Tom, I specially want your presence. I 
will be there at that time ; and I feel quite certain, that, 
amongst us all, we will find daylight in it, and somebody 
will be surprised, and all will be pleased. Unless I am 
badly mistaken, it will end like a play. 

Uncle Tom was all curiosity. 

“ Don’t ask me now. Uncle Tom. I will be prepared 
to tell jmu every thing in my mind at foiu’ this afternoon 
precisely. ’ ’ 

And then they went away. 

As soon as they were off the platform in front of the 
office, I shut the door, leaped over a big stove, ran into 
the back-room, and performed various pantomimic motions 
expressive of intense gratification. 

Soon after, I walked gravely out at the front-door, and 
went down across the street to Asa Lamed and Otis 
Bond’s livery- stable, and ordered my pet horse and buggy 
for half-past three. I then walked out south to Judge 


A lawyer's little story. 439 

Avery’s, and found Carrie in the front-yard among her 
flowers. 

Talk of maidens’ forms ! I wish you could have seen 
her then. But she don’t belong to this history. She saw 
me coming, but affected not to, or even to hear the gate 
as I slammed it. She was very busy just then inhaling 
the fragrance from a blossoming rose-tree. 

‘ ‘ Carrie ! ’ ’ 

“ Oh, how you frightened me ! ” springing up. 

“Yes, I know I did. Y'ou had laid yourself out to be 
frightened. It seems to produce a rush of blood to the 
face.” 

‘ ‘ It often affects me that way, ’ ’ naively. 

“ Especially when you have had notice.” 

“You see, Mr. Impudence, I borrowed from these 
roses : arn’t they beauties? ” 

“You come by the color naturally. Miss Avery, by a 
law of eonsanguinit}^ ” 

“Is there a compliment or a sarcasm hidden under 
that sanguinary word, Mr. Councillor? ” 

“ I compliment the roses. Miss Avery.” 

“You don’t say what you think of my roses.” 

“ Oh, your roses ! They are your cousins, and so well 
enough. I hadn’t seen them, really. Why should I? 
They are well en'ough for roses. Who cares for roses? ” 

“Ido.” 

“So do I, then: they are beauties, exquisite, tran- 
scendent ! ” 

“ That will do. Poor things ! They are not a jury to 
be stupefied with long words.” 

“ Miss Avery? ” 

“ Sir? ” demurely. 

“ Do you wish to take a ride this p.m? ” 

“Girls do not have wishes. If they do, they do not 
express them to 3^oung gentlemen.” 


440 


MONSON. 


“ Oil ! that is it, is it?’^ 

“ That is just it.’’ 

“ Miss Avery,” — hat in hand, — permit me to place 
a horse and carriage at your disposal this afternoon, with 
yours devotedly as attendant and driver,” very humbly 
and respectfully. 

“ Thank you. As I have nothing else on earth to do, 
and time is heavy, I will avail myself of your kindness, 
perhaps.” 

“Your ‘perhaps’ lays me under many obligations. 
Permit me to name the hour as three, perhaps.” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps I will not keep you waiting more than thirty 
minutes,” laughing. 

“ May I solicit a rose from your tree? ” 

“ Certainly — you may solicit. I believe you are called 
a solicitor or something, and it would be quite professional ; 
and then they are well enough as roses, Mr. Solicitor. 
Do you always win youi' cases when you solicit? ” 

“No. The gift would give it value,” I said, with a 
little pathos in my voice. “ I hope to be more fortunate 
when I solicit a flower again. At three — till when, 
adieu.” 

She was not prepared for the turn I made, and may 
have looked at her fully-blown tree with the thought, that, 
after all, one might as well have hung on a pin from the 
lapel of my coat as to fade on its stem. As for me, I 
managed to go away with a sense of injury, sometimes 
dear to a lover’s heart — or mood. 

At sharp half-past three I was in front of the yellow 
cottage with a carriage. She did not keep me a minute. 
As she came out, she made a little semi-circuit around by 
the beautiful rose-tree, and, selecting an exquisite half- 
opened flower, plucked it and came toward me, with her 
dark eyes swimming in liquid light. 


A lawyer’s little story. 


441 


“ Is that the rose you refused me? ’’ 

“ This is the rose I give you,’" and fastened it deftly to 
my coat, and making a snowy rose-tinted cup of her hand 
she aifected to press it to its place and admonish it to re- 
main like a well-conducted rose, when she just lifted her 
eyes to mine. 

“ Thanks, dearest,” and we drove leisurely away. 

We went down Water Street on the Cleveland road, and 
turned south-west. On the way I told the young lady the 
story of John and Elsie so far as I knew it. The romance 
enlisted her sympathies at once. She had seen Elsie, and 
praised her beauty, as she did that of other women, with- 
out a thought of herself. Old John Trask’s miserliness 
shocked her, and she wondered how I expected to unravel 
the mystery surrounding the loss of the money. I 
answered, “ That will depend,” and turned her attention to 
the lovers involved in it. 

We were there on time. Miss Avery knew the Trasks, 
and was herself quite widely known in all the region about 
Chardon. 

I found old man Trask depressed and querulous. 
When I was introduced to him, he only raised his eyes, 
saying, “ What do you s’pose you know about this? ” 

“ That will appear in good time.” And I went on to 
ask him two or three questions, which he answered shortly, 
and without raising his eyes. He was at 0. P. Brown’s 
office on Saturday as late as three in the afternoon. He 
got up about eight on Sunday morning. Any fool knew 
his money was not stolen that morning before he was up. 

I turned away from him to Uncle Tom, Mrs. Trask, and 
Jim, while Miss Avery, Elsie, and John, sat near him in a 
little group, and said, — talking at the old man all the^ 
time, — “A funny thing happened to me early last Sun- 
day morning, which I will teU you of. 


442 


MONSON. 


“Brown had to leave that morning for Randolph, to 
'Visit his sick brother.” 

“ Yes, he told me he’s going,” growled the old man. 

“ And he wanted to start very early. He did go a little 
after six. How the deuce he got up in time for that is 
more of a mystery to me than the loss of this money is 
now.” 

“ Hired a man to sit up all night an’ wake ’im per’aps,” 
said Jim. 

“ One man couldn’t wake him alone, — but no matter, 
up he was, and came over to Larned’s and waked me up. 
It was so extraordinary that I noted the time, and it was a 
little past five o’clock. I got up ” — 

‘ ‘ Alone ? ’ ’ demanded Miss Avery. 

“Alone, Miss Avery.” 

“ That w^as a morning of wonders,” she replied. 

I glanced down at my beautiful rose, and went on. 
“ Brown was a good deal excited.” 

“He must have been, to induce you to rise at that 
hour,” she added. 

I deemed it wise to disregard the last sarcasm, and 
went on. 

“ Brown asked me to go with him to his office, which I 
did. Not a word was said on the way. We went up the 
stairs, he unlocked the door, pushed it open, stepped back, 
and told me to look in. The office, as you know, is over 
Jude Converse’s store, with two windows in front some 
twelve or fourteen feet from the ground, which Brown said 
had been open all night. Then he said, ‘ I came here 
about half an hour ago. You are my friend, and, by the 
repeated blunders of the people, the prosecuting attorney. 
I want yon should take charge of the office and all there is 
in it. I leave the key in your hands, and must go to my 
sick mother.’ And he went off, leaving me there. 


A lawyer’s little story. 


443 


“ There were a number of loose papers scattered all 
over the floor, as if blown off from the table by the wind 
during the night. The table stood in front of one window, 
and there was nothing on it when I saw it.” 

“I remember — I remember,” said the old man, inter- 
rupting me, “ that I sat by that table.” 

“You do? Well, if you are good at recalling, I will 
help you to remember a more important fact. On the 
floor, among the papers strewn about,” resuming my 
story, “were several bank-bills — several bank-bills, strewn 
around with the papers blown from the table.” A pause, 
to note the effect, which was great, especially on old man 
Trask. 

‘ ‘ I stood looking them over, and endeavored to think 
of some clew as to how and why they came there. They 
were not Brown’s ; could not well have been thrown in 
at the window ; would not have been, unless counterfeit. 
I picked up one and examined it. It certainly was genu- 
ine. I gathered them all up ; and, as I thought, they 
were all genuine. They must have been left there by mis- 
take. Some reckless man, who don’t care about money, 
laid them on that table, and went off, and has never 
thought of them since — ha. Uncle Trask!” turning to 
man, who was very much interested. The idea of finding 
the old a quantity of genuine bank-bills lying around 
loose on the floor was more absorbing to him than would 
have been a visible flight of angels through the sky. 

“A man goin’ off and not thinkin’ on his money is a 
likely story,” he said contemptuously. • 

“ It is, ha? Well, old man, we will see about that in a 
minute,” turning now to him: “there were just five of 
the bills. How many did you lose? ” 

‘ ‘ Five. What — what ’ ’ — 

“ Hold on, old man ! each of these bills was a hundred- 
dollar biU.” 


444 


MONSON. 


“ My God ! you don’t ” — 

“I do. Some of you hold him. Well, all of these 
bills are on the Farmers’ Bank of Albany.” 

“Oh, oh, oh!” springing up, notwithstanding his 
rheumatism. 

“You left them on Brown’s table among the papers, 
never thought of them, unlikely as the story is, and here 
they are,” holding them out in my hand to him. 

Every one sprang to his feet and gathered around me ; 
while the old man, with his head bent forward, and his 
keen, sharp eyes peering up through his shaggy brows, 
looked at me for half a minute, his face ashen, and his 
whole form quivering. Suddenly he struck his brow, and, 
with a little cry, sank back into his seat, while Elsie sprang 
forward, threw herself on her knees at my feet, raised her 
clasped hands and beautiful eyes to heaven, and cried, 

‘ ‘ Thank God ! Oh, thank and bless God ! ’ ’ And Carrie 
stood, with lips apart, with her great, black, melancholy 
eyes flashing with wonder, and melting with joy. * I did’nt 
notice the others. 

There was a half-minute’s silence, when, starting for- 
ward, the old man cried in anguish, “ I see it all ! I see 
it 1 It was just as I told you at flrst. It was that pesky 
Jim’s doin’s ; all his fault. You see, he’s always gittin’ 
money of me, when he knows I has any. Wal, I had flve 
hundred dollars more’n he knew on. When I was in 
Brown’s I took my money out ; there was fifteen hundred 
dollars egzactly ; I counted off flve of the bills, an’ jest 
then I heard Jim a cornin’ in, an’ I shoved them are five 
bills under a newspaper on the table, an’ never thought 
on’t agin, and never should. O God 1 I ain’t fit to do 
nothin’ ; and all this — all this comes o’ my forgitfulness. 
Wal, wal, God help me ! I forgot.” 

“ An’ it was money ye forgot ! ” said Uncle Tom, with 
his small, blue eyes twinkling. 


A lawyer’s little story. 


445 


“ Wal, wal, children,” turning to Elsie and John, “ can 
you forgive me? ” 

“ As easy as you forgot your money,” cried the happy 
Elsie, springing up, and throwing her arms about his neck, 
and kissing his shrivelled lips ; while John, with tears in 
his eyes, clasped one of the shaking, shrunken, miserly 
old hands in his two warm, firm, generous ones. 

“Well, Mr. Trask,” said I, holding out the bills to 
him, “here is your money. I tender it in presence of 
these witnesses.” 

“I won’t touch it. It has done evil enough. Give it 
to Elsie. Give it to Elsie. She has earned it ; give it to 
her.” 

“Yis, yis,” cried Uncle Tom, “the money belongs to 
her.” 

“Give it to her, father,” said Jim’s wife eagerly, in 
which Jim joined. 

“ Give it to Elsie ; don’t you hear? ” cried the old one 
to me. 

“ Mr. Trask, you give it to her,” said I, proffering him 
the bills again. 

He took them in a shaking hand. “Here, Elsie, dear 
child, will you take ’em from a poor, forgetful, sinful, old 
man?” 

“ Do you mean it, father? ” 

“ Take ’em, for God’s sake ! ” said the old man in dis- 
tress. 

She took them. 

“There!” he cried, much relieved. “Thank God, 
that is off my soul ! ” and turning to me, “Young man, 
I’ve heard of you before. I want to know more on ye. 
You shall have fifty ” — 

“Not a cent, not a cent. I am more than paid. I 
took charge of this for Brown, and have done what he 


446 


MONSON. 


would, — restored the money to the owner the moment I 
found out who he was.” 

And then I had to tell what I had thought about the 
money, in the mean time, and explained that I had ex- 
pected that some owner would turn up for it ; that, had 
Brown told me of the transaction of Satoday afternoon, 
I should have had the clew at once. 

“It is all for the best,” said the old man. “ God in- 
tended it for the best, no doubt, for all our good.” 

“ The ole hunlis would ’a’ liked it better if he could ’a’ 
got the same amount o’ good for less money,” said Uncle 
Tom in an aside to me. 

To which I said, “ahem,” too intent on Elsie for 
Uncle Tom’s keen observation. 

She had taken her seat, and sat running the bills, new, 
handsome, and crisp, over in her hands, admiring the neat 
engravings with childish delight. 

“They are all just alike, ain’t they? And is each of 
these worth a hundred dollars, John? ” 

“A round hundred. If you were to take these to the 
bank, it would give you a hundred silver dollars for each,” 
he answered. 

“Would it? I never saw a hundred-dollar bill before, 
and there are five of them. Five hundred dollars. Is 
that a good deal of money, John? ” 

“Yes, for these times in Monson, it is a good deal of 
money.” 

‘ ‘ Does it make us rich ? ’ ’ 

“Us rich? It makes you rich, for a girl.” 

^ ‘ What can I do with it all ? ” 

“ I’ll tell you,” said the old man, now much interested 
in her talk. “Buy yourself a handsome weddin’ dress 
an’ an outfit. The cloud is gone away now.” 

“Yes, I remember. John can trust me, can’t you, 
John? ” with just a glance at him. 


A lawyer’s little story. 


447 


“ Indeed, I can.” 

“ Will you keep the money for me, Mr. Trask? ” to the 
old man. 

‘ ‘ I keep it ! I dare not touch it agin’ ; would not for 
the world,” said the old man decidedl}^ 

“ John, will you keep it for me? ” appealing to him. 

‘ ‘ Can 3"ou trust me with so much money ? ’ ’ 

I am trusting you with every thing.” 

What a blessed, happy time it was ! — one of those 
hours in human lives when heart and soul break through 
all, and love and trust come with refreshing to the sordid, 
famished bosoms of many. 

With glad, bright words, we took leave, Carrie and I, 
with our two hearts not then needing much refreshing. 
We went out alone into the warm and early summer 
gloaming. Ah, me ! the memory of that homeward ride, — 

“ ’Mid falling dew, 

While glowed the heavens with the last steps of day.” 

Should this page meet her eye, still lustrous under her 
splendid wealth of snowy hair, would it awaken a tender 
recollection of a far-away, sweet June twilight and even- 
ing? 

Monson was long ago admitted into the Union, and 
boasts a population as thrifty and refined as any of her 
older sisters. Her beautiful forests, and the cabins of her 
early settlers built in their midst, disappeared together; 
and Uncle Tom, and the whole of that band, have departed. 

“ Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.” 

Elsie had her bridal home on the banks of that beauti- 
ful creek, which her memory still invests with the lingering 
charm of romance. Tender maidens, who have nevei 


448 


MONSON. 


before heard her name, will thank me for this little legend, 
and look with interest upon all the places her presence | 
made beautiful, and ask questions of her life and lovely I 
ways which those familiar with her later history will 
gladly answer. 







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